954 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    SflE    bflD 


.^ 


ARMAND; 


OR, 


THE  PEER  AND  THE  PEASANT. 


a  \mn, 


IN    FIVE    ACTS. 


BY 

ANNA    CORA    MOWATT, 


AUTHOR    OF     •'  FASHION,        A    COMEDY,    "  EVELYN,        ETC. 


"  Ancient  Heaven 
Extends  its  arch  o'er  all,  and  mocks  the  span 
Of  palaces  and  dungeons  ;  where  the  heaiu 
In  its  free  beatings  'neath  the  coarsest  vest, 
Claims  kindred  with  diviner  things  than  power 
Of  kings  can  raise  or  stifle." 

Talfourd. 


N  E  W  -  Y  0  R  K  : 

STRINGER  &  TOWNSEIS^D,  222  BROADWAY 
1851. 


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ARMAND; 

OR, 

THE  PEER  AND  THE  PEASANT. 
a  flap, 

IN    FIVE    ACTS. 


BY 

ANNA    CORA    MOW  ATT,  UfU. 

AUTHOR    OK    '^  FASHION,"    A    COMEDY,    "EVELYN,"    ETC. 


"  Ancient  Heaven 
Extends  its  arch  o'er  all,  and  mocks  the  span 
Of  palaces  and  dungeons ;  where  the  heai  o 
In  its  free  beatings  'neath  the  coarsest  vest, 
Claims  kindred  with  diviner  things  than  power 
Of  kings  can  raise  or  stifle." 

Talfourd. 


N  E  W  -  Y  0  R  K  : 

STRINGER  &  TOWNSEND,  222  BROADWAY 
1851. 


ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE 
YEAR  1849,  BY  JAMES  MOW  ATT, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southeiti  District 
' :  \."  of  New  Tori;. 


Notice. 

KT"  Managers  in  the  United  States  are  informed  that  the  right  to 
perform  this  Play  is  private  property,  and  the  Play  cannot  be  per- 
formed without  the  express  written  consent  of  J.  Mowatt. 


TO 

MRS.  JOHN  H.  WILKIN8, 

boston,  massachusetts. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Wilkin s, 

Allow  me  to  dedicate  "  Jnnand"  to  you — 
one  of  the  first  and  dearest  amongst  those  absent 
friends,  of  whose  love  I  have  had  such  abundant 
proofs.  I  would  say  to  you,  as  to  them,  that, 
highly  as  I  prize  the  success  with  which  "  Ar- 
mancV  has  been  favored  before  a  British  public 
— that  success  can  never  diminish  the  value  of 
the  enthusiastic  greeting  the  Play  received  in 
my  own  beloved  land.  And  I  beg  my  country- 
men to  believe  that  the  ample  record  of  home- 
kindnesses  dwells  ever  freshly  in  my  memory. 

I  am, 
My  dear  Madam, 

Respectfully  and  most  affectionately 
Yours, 
Anna  Cora  Mowatt. 

Loudon,  Feb.  22iid,  1849. 

N150858 


INTRODUCTION. 


T  hi: -plsiy  of  Arm  and  ;  or,  the  Peer  and  the  Peasant,  was 
produced  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York,  September  27th, 
1847,  and  subsequently  in  Boston,  Massachusetts.  It 
was  represented  before  a  London  audience,  at  the  Theatre 
Royal,  Marylebone,  January  18th,  1849,  and  was  acted 
twenty-one  successive  nights. 

In  England,  as  in  America,  the  indulgence  of  the 
audience  towards  the  production  of  a  woman,  and  the  exer- 
tions of  the  actors,  rendered  its  success  unequivocal  and 
even  brilliant. 

Some  slight  liberty  has  been  taken  in  portraying  the 
character  of  Louis  XV.,  who  is  not  rendered  so  totally  and 
revoltingly  destitute  of  virtues  as  he  is  described  by  his- 
torians; but  I  trust  the  license  is  a  pardonable  one. 

That  Richelieu  had  a  daughter,  by  a  secret  marriage, 
who  was  brought  up  in  privacy,  there  is  some  little  autho- 
rity for  believing,  and  the  fact  (if  it  be  one)  has  already 
been  made  the  subject  of  novels,  &c. 

The  character  of  Armand  has  been  objected  to,  as  not 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

belonging  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  but  I  think  historical 
records  will  bear  me  out  in  the  conclusion,  that  it  was 
during  his  reign  that  the  seeds  of  the  revolution  were 
sown,  and  already  began  to  shoot  forth  in  the  breasts  of 
the  lower  orders.  Armand's  sentiments  are  but  the  fore- 
shadowing of  that  revolution. 

My  acknowledgments  are  due  and  cheerfully  paid  to 
Mr.  Watts,  the  Manager  of  the  Marylebone  Theatre,  for 
the  liberality  evinced  in  putting  the  play  upon  the  stage, 
and  in  all  his  other  arrangements — to  Mr.  Davenport, 
for  his  impressive  and  spirited  impersonation  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Armand — to  the  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the 
company,  for  the  heartiness  with  which  they,  one  and  all, 
contributed  their  exertions,  and  to  the  scenic  Artist,  for 
the  admirable  manner  in  which  his  labours  were  executed. 
I  acknowledge  with  pleasure  that  to  the  united  efforts  of 
these  parties  the  play  was  largely  indebted  for  its  success. 

A.  C.  M. 

London,  February  22nd,   1849. 


PERSONS  OF  THE   DRAMA. 

Louis  THE  Fifteenth,  King  of  Frauc-e. 

Duke  de  Richelieu, 

Duke  D'Antin,  an  old  Noble. 

Armand,  an  Artizan. 

Le  Sage,  Attendant  of  the  Duke  D'Antin. 

Victor,  the  King' s  favorite  Page. 

Jacot, 

Etienne, 

Male  and  Female  Peasants. 


)T,  ? 

;nne,  \ 


Peasants. 


Blanche. 

Dame  Babette. 

jAauELiNE,  daughter  of  Dame  Babette. 


CAST  OF   CHARACTERS. 

NEW  YORK.  LONDON. 

Park,  1847.  Marylebone,  1849. 

Louis  the  Fifteenth       Mr.  Hield.  Mr.  H.  T.  Craven. 

Duke  de  Richelieu  .     .  —   Barry.  —  James  Johnstone. 
Duke  D'Antin     ...     —   Dougherty.       —  J.  W.  Ray. 

Armand —   Davenport.        —   Davenport. 

Le  Sage —   McDougal.  —   G.  Cooke. 

Victor Miss  Denin.  Miss  S.  Viilars. 

Jacot Mr.  Rae.  Mr.  Green. 

Etienne —    Gallot.  —   Bowen. 

Blanche Mrs.  Mowatt.  Mrs.  Mowatt. 

Babette —  Vernon.  —   Johnstone. 

jAauELiNE      ....    Miss  Kate  Horn.  Miss  M.  Oliver. 

NOTE. 
Passages  marked  with  inverted  commas  are  omitted  in  representation. 


EXITS  AND  ENTRANCES. 
R.  means  Right;  L.,  I^ft;  R.  1  E.,  Right  First  Entrance;  2   E,,  Second 
Entrance;  D.  F.,  Door  in  the  Flat. 

RELATIVE  POSITIONS. 
R.  means  Right;  L.,  Left;  C,  Centre;  R.  C,  Right  of  Centre;  L.  C,  Left 
of  Centre. 

•#•  The  reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage  facing  the  Audience. 


COSTUMES. 

KINC  LOUIS.— First  dress:  Linlit  blue  velvet  coat,  and  while  satin  long  vest 
richly  trimmed  with  silver,  large  cntts,  fnll  shirt  sleeves  and  frills,  white  satin 
breeches,  long  stockings,  gartered  below  the  knee,  three-cornered  hat,  trim- 
med with  lace  and  white  feather?,  white  neckcloth  and  frills,  crimson  bow 
and  diamond  brooch,  steel-hilted  sword,  broad  white  ribbim,  with  star  over 
riijht  shoulder,  star  on  left  breast,  cane  with  rich  tassels  and  cord,  black  shoes 
and  buckles,  on  crimson  ribbi)n,  red  heels,  full  powdered  ringlet  wig.— 
Second  dress:  Rich  disguise,  cloak  and  hat.— Third  dress:  Crimson  velvet 
coat,  trimmed  with  gold,"  blue  ribbon  over  right  shoulder,  rest  as  before. 

RICHELIEU.— First  dress:  Dark  blue  velvet  coat  and  silver,  white  breeches 
and  frills,  sleeves,  shoes,  hat,  sword,  wig,  &c.,  all  of  same  style  as  King's; 
white  broad  ribbon  over  right  shoulder,  blue  ribbon  and  diamond  pin.— 
Second  dress:   Darker  velvet,  and  gold,  rest  as  before. 

D'ANTIN.— First  dress:  Moroon  velvet  and  silver,  black  satin  breeches,  white 
stockings,  frills,  sleeves,  shoes,  hat  trimmed  wiih  black  feather,  mourning 
sword, "&c.,  all  same  style  as  King's;  purple  ribbon  over  right  shoulder,  full 
powdered  ringlet  wig,  bald  front,  black  ribbon  and  pin.— Second  dress:  Black 
and  gold,  same  style,  rest  as  before. 

ARMAND.— First  dress:  Salmon  and  blue  short  coat  and  full  breeches,  large 
cutis,  full  shirt  and  sleeves,  collar  turned  over,  black  ribbon,  blue  and  white 
striped  stockings,  black  shoes  and  buckles,  white  hat,  trimmed  with  blue,  and 
pink  wreath,  nosegay,  in  left  button  hole,  ringlet  wig.— Second  dress  :  Bine 
military  coat,  trimmed  witli  gold,  high  military  boots  and  spurs,  broad  sword, 
shoulder  belt,  sword  to  break,  white  neckcloth  and  frills,  red  bow  and  brooch, 
powdered  wig  and  ribbon. 

VICTOR.— First  dress :  Salmon  and  silver,  vest,  breeches,  stockings,  garters,  hat, 
shoes,  sword,  dtc.,&c.,  all  same  st>le  as  King's,  powdered  wig.— Second  dress: 
Garnet  velvet  and  gold,  rest  as  before. 

LE  SAGE — First  dress:  Brown  coat,  plain  breeches,  stockings  over  knee,  shoes 
and  buckles,  long  salmon  vest,  same  style  as  the  rest,  hat  without  trimming, 
powdered  wig  and  bag.— Second  dress:  Black  velvet,  trimmed  with  dark  blue 
ribbon,  rest  as  before. 

MALE  PEASANTS.— Various  colors,  same  style  as  Armand. 

OFFICER  AND  GUARDS.— White  military  coats,  three-cornered  hats,  powder, 
wliile  cravats,  Hic. 

PAGES.— Court  dresses,  same  style  as  King's,  powder,  &c. 

BLANCHE.— First  dress:  V/hite  muslin  cottage  dress,  with  rows  of  white  satin 
ribbon  around  the  skirt,  on  the  head  a  wreath  of  white  may-flowers,  shaped 
like  coronet,  a  garland  of  white  flowers,  hung  from  the  left  shoulder. — St-cond 
dress:  Plain  white  muslin  slip,  same  wreath.— Third  dress:  A  sober  colored 
merino,  made  in  the  st>le  of  Louis  XV.,  the  boddice,  trimmed  with  a  ruche 
of  pink  silk  and  pompadour  rosettes  down  the  front,  open  skirt  looped  all 
around  with  same  rosettes,  under  skirt  of  embroidered  muslin,  a  band  of  pearls 
on  the  head. — Fourth  dress:  Silver  brocade,  embroidered  in  blue,  closed  in 
front,  and  looped  all  around  with  bunches  of  blue  and  silver  leaves,  the 
boddice,  trimmed  with  ruches  of  white  tulle  and  blue  ribbon,  under  skirt  of 
salmon  colored  satin,  linings  of  brocade  the  same,  powdered  hair,  with  a 
small  wreath  of  blue  and  silver  leaves  on  one  side,  diamond  ornaments. 

BAB  ETTE.— First  dress  :  Oranee  colored  skirt,  blue  merino  boddice,  black  velvet 
jacket,  white  apron,  high  peasant  cap,  high-heeled  shoes,  colored  stockings.— 
Second  dress :   Red  petticoat,  black  jacket,  cap,  &c.,  as  before. 

JAQUELINE.— First  dress:  Striped  under  skirt,  over  dress  of  gay  colored  chintz, 
tucktd  up,  laced  boddice,  cottage  cap,  small  white  apron,  striped  stockings. 
Second  dress:  Indian  silk  dress,    made  in  same  style  as  the  first. 

Peasant  dresses,  in  same  style  as  Jaqueline,  but  none  in  white. 


A  R  M  A  N  D. 


ACT  I.  . 

SCENE  I. 

A  beautiful  part  of  the  Garden  of  Versailles.  Fountain 
of  Neptune  with  statues.  Le  Sage  walking  about  as 
though  musing. 

Le  Sage.  Solve  me  this  problem,  Le  Sage,  if  thou  canst. 
Why  should  the  Duke  d'Antin  occupy  his  thoughts  with  a 
young  peasant?  Why  so  earnestly  desire  that  his  majesty 
should  behold  her  1  Unquestionably  there  is  a  mystery  ; 
indubitably  a  mystery  !  But  thou  shalt  solve  it,  Le  Sage ! 
Thou  hast  a  head, — incontestibly  a  head, — unqualifiedly  a 
wise  head, — 

\Enter  Duke  d'Antin,   l.  1  e. 
Undoubtedly  a  head  that  sees — 

jy Ant.  Better  than  your  eyes,  I  trust,  Le  Sage. 

Le  Sage.  Pardon,  your  Grace.  Indisputably  I  did  not 
observe  you. 

jy Ant.  I  am  all  impatience  to  learn  what  took  place 
last  evening. 

Le  Sage.  Your  Grace  shall  hear.  Preparatively  I  need 
not  inform  your  Grace  that,  obeying  your  orders,  I  made  my- 
self acquainted  with  Dame  Babette,  down  at  the  village, 
St.  Denis,  yonder.  Listantaneously  I  discovered  that  your 
Grace  had  been  rightly  informed,  and  that  the  Duke  de 
Richelieu  frequently  visits  the  dame's  cottage  in  the  garb 
of  a  citizen.  Unsuspiciously  i\\Q  diSimQ,  cdXl^  him  Monsieur 
Antoine. 

B'Ant.  All  this  I  know  ;  proceed. 

Le  Sage.   Voluntarily  ! 

B' Ant.  You  talked  to  the  dame  and  her  young  charge 
of  these  charming  gardens,  as  1  ordered  1 


10  ARMAND  ;    OR,  [ACT.  I. 

Le  Sage.  I  painted  the  beauties  of  Versailles  with  the 
hand  of  an  artist  and  the  tongue  of  a  poet!  Mam'selle 
Blanche  was  enchanted.  Courteously  I  promised  to  obtain 
her  and  the  dame  an  admission  ;  accordingly,  yesterday 
evening  at  dusk,  when  the  garden  was  wholly  deserted,  I 
conducted  them  to  this  very  spot.  Secretly  I  then  dis- 
patched Victor  to  the  King.  Insinuatingly  he  suggested 
to  his  Majesty,  that  a  miraculously  lovely  young  peasant 
girl  had,  with  o,  very  talkative  old  woman,  inexplicably  ob- 
tained admission  to  his  private  gardens,  and  was  wandering 
abpyt:in  pcstaticalbj  rustic  delight. 

B' Ant.  Go-  cn;  go  on. 

Le  Sage.  Immediately  I 

ly Ant.  Did  he  come  ?     Did  he  see  her  ? 

Le  Sage.  Certainly.  His  Majesty  was  unsuspectedly 
dying  of  ennui.  Involuntarily  he  revived  at  the  thought 
of  an  adventure,  iwudentially  wrapped  himself  in  a  cloak, 
and  unrejlectingly  hastened  to  the  garden. 

D'Ant.  And  then, — then  he  joined  the  peasants  ? 

Le  Sage.   Indubitably. 

D'Ant.  They  did  not  suspect  that  he  was  the  king  ? 

Le  Sage.  Incontestibly  not. 

B'Ant.  He  was  fascinated  with  Blanche  ? 

Le  Sage.  Indescribably  ! 

D'Ant.  He  became  joyous — elated — excited  ? 

Le  Sage.  Extraordinarily  ! 

B'Ant.  Blanche  was  gay — artless — piquante  ? 

Le  Sage.  Superlatively  ! 

BAnt.  Hush  !  Victor  comes  this  way.  (crossing  r.) 
Question  him  closely.  This  evening  you  shall  have  furtlier 
directions.     Be  cautious.  IKvit  r.  1  e. 

Le  Sage.  Invariably  ! 

Enter  Victor,  l.  1  e. 

Victor.  Ah  !  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  ice  are  charmed  to  en- 
counter you. 

Le  Sage.  Delightedly  I  salute  his  Majesty  in  miniature. 

Victor.  If  you  reflect  on  our  size,  Monsieur  Le  Sage, 
we  would  inform  you — 

Le  Sage.  That  it  is  immeasurahly  beneath  my  notice. 
— A  particularly  correct  and  pungently  philosophical  con- 
clusion. But,  Monsieur  Victor,  a  word  concerning  the 
young  peasant,  who  yestereveuing, — 


SCKNK  I.]  THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  11 

Victor,  Ah  !  you  touch  ns  nearly  when  you  talk  of  her! 
Oitr  love  for  the  "  illusive  sex" — for  such  we  deem  them — 
is  our  Achilles'  heel — our  vulnerable  point  !  His  Majesty, 
like  ourself,  has  been  cold  for  a  season  ;  but  once  more  the 
intoxicating  effect  of  the  tender  passion  has  overpowered  z<5. 

Enter  King  and  Richelieu,  l.  3  e. 
In  a  word,  his  Majesty  is  pleased  with  this  young  piece  of 
incarnate  loveliness, — we  may  say  charmed. 

King.  Boy,  thou  art  overbold  to  speak  of  this 
To  other  than  ourselves.     Away,  and  be 
The  answer  to  our  wish  when  next  you  seek 
Our  presence.     Go!     You  comprehend  us,  sir? 

[Victor  and  Le  Sage  make  a  lotv  obeisance. 
[Exeunt  Victor  and  Le  Sage,  l.  u.  e. 
Here,  Richelieu,  is  the  consecrated  spot 
Where  I  beheld  her  first.     Here  would  I  raise 
An  altar,  sacred, — not  to  love,  (no  rood 
Within  our  kingdom  but  were  meet  for  that.) 
Be  this  to  first  impressions  dedicated ! 

Rich.  My  liege  !   I'm  all  impatience  to  behold 
The  wondrous  beauty — 

King.  The  wondrous  beauty — nay  ! 

I  said  not  beauty — it  was  not  what  men 
Call  beauty,  that  has  thus  enthralled  my  soul; 
It  was  the  spirit's  loftier  loveliness. 
Unseen, — ethereal,  and  ineffable! 
Which  breathed  from  her  pure  lips — gave  to  her  step 
Its  springing  bound — her  every  movement  lent 
Its  airy  grace — pervaded  her  whole  being — 
Impregnated  the  air  that  kissed  her  robe. 
And  with  an  atmosphere  of  purity 
Encircled  her ! 

It  was  her  voice  whose  music 
No  sorrow  yet  had  touched — her  childlike  prattle. 
By  very  artlessness  made  arch — her  form, 
TJntortured  to  its  light  fragility 
By  court  accessories  of  beauty's  toilet — 
Her  affluent  tresses,  flowing  unprofaned 
By  touch  of  mocking  powder,  which  had  lain 
Upon  their  golden  light,  like  fleecy  clouds 
Upon  the  sun ! 

Rich.  Now,  heaven  be  thanked,  my  liege ! 

B  2 


12  ARMAND;   or,  [Act,  I. 

No  rhapsody  so  Wvirm  bath  passed  your  hps 

A  twelvemonth  !      Duhiess  ends  her  weary  reign. 

'Tis  plain  this  young  enchantress  will  dethrone  hcF» 

King.  In  sooth,  she  shall !     Richelieu,  n^y  friend,  be 
prompt ! 
With  speed  let  this  new  constellation  shine 
Upon  our  court. — Some  noble  dame  select, 
Beneath  her  high  protection  place  this  maid. 
Nor  rank,  nor  title  shall  she  lack,  to  gild 
Her  lowly  origin — 

Enter  Victor,  l.  u.  e. 
and  for  the  rest — 
Vic.  Your  pardon,  sire ;   the  old  woman — 
King.  What !  is  she  come  ?     Conduct  her  hither. 

\Exit  Victor,  l.  u.  e. 
Now,  Richelieu,  use  but  your  wonted  skill,  and  we  are 
once  more  your  debtor. 

Rich.  Sire,    you    have   but   to    speak — to   wish,    and 
though  she  were  some  chaste  inhabitant  of  the  moon. 
Enter  Victor,  ushering  Dame  Babette,   l.  u.  e. 

[Exit  Victor,  l.  u.  e. 
the  vestal  dweller  of  some  star,  she  should  exchange  its 
light  for —  (Sees  the  Dame  and  starts  hack  greatly  moved.) 
Heavens !      Babette ! 

King.  Why  do  you  stare  so?  You  don't  mistake  this 
curious  relic  of  antiquity  for  the  fair  one  who  holds  me  in 
thraldom  ? 

Hich.  Not  exactly — that  is,  precisely — I  thought  so! 
— that  is,  I  never  thought  so.  If  it  were  but  my  own 
fancy  that  had  conjured  up  this  spectre  I  \half  aside. 

King.  Spectre  ?  You  are  dreaming.  The  old  lady  ap- 
pears to  us  in  a  remarkably  substantial  condition. 

Bah.  (glancing  nervously  at  the  King  and  away  again 
while  she  talks)  I'm  all  over  in  a  flutter.  I  suppose  its 
my  place  to  speak  first,  though  I  never  talk.  I  see  they 
feel  just  as  frightened  as  I  do.  Dear  me  !  how  they  stare, 
to  be  sure.  If  Blanche  was  only  here,  she'd  wonder  at  the 
observation  that  some  people  sometimes  attract.  (After  an 
effort).  Gentlemen,  I  hope  I  do  not  confuse  you.  I'm 
really  quite  alarmed  myself,  before  such  well-dressed  cava- 
liers. I  was  sent  for  here,  but  I  say  nothing,  I  never 
talk,  as  everybody  knows.     I  was  sent  for,  that's  all — I 


Scene  I.]        the  peer  and  the  peasant.  13 

do'nt  know  why,  so  shall  not  say.     (King   retires  up,  she 
crosses  to  Richelieu.)  If  you  could  inform  me,  Sir,  for  I'm 
but  a  poor  woman — I  live  down  at  the  vil--lage  yon— der — 
[as  she  is  speaking  the  last  icords  she  looks  very 
intently  at  Richelieu  and  gradually  re- 
cognizes him. 
Blessed  Mother!  it  is  Monsieur  Antoine  ! 

Rich,   (aside  to  her)   Silence,  fool ! 

Bab.  Silence,  forsooth !  as  if  I  ever  talk  !  Ah,  Monsieur 
Antoine,  to  think  of  finding  you  here  and  dressed  so  grand. 

Rich.  Hush! 

King,  (who  has  come  forward  attracted  hy  Rahette' s 
exclamation)  Why,  Richelieu,  the  old  dragon  seems  to 
have  recognized  a  friend  ! 

Bah.  Richelieu?  Hey,  what?  Richelieu!  (Richelieu 
silences  her  by  an  action.)     Oh!    I  say  nothing  ! 

Rich,  (crosses  c.)  Quite  a  ridiculous  affair — ha,  ha  ! 
(trying  to  laugh.)  The  old  gentlewoman — ha,  ha! — she 
actually  fancies  she  has  traced  a  likeness  between  me,  and 
some  relation  who  died  in  the  last  century,  sire  ! 

Bab.  Sire!  sire?  His  Majesty?  Oh  blessed  Mary? 
Holy  St.  Dennis  !  And  last  night  I  talked  in  such  a  way — 
that  is,  I  said  nothing — I  never  talk — what  will  become  of 
me?  (falling  on  her  knees.)  Pardon — your  Majesty — 
pardon !  I  did  not  know  you — I  never  suspected  you ! 
And  was  it  you  last  evening  that— Oh,  pardon !   pardon! 

Ki7ig.  Nonsense,  my  good  woman;  your  breach  of 
decorum  will  not  put  your  head  in  jeopardy. 

Bab.  Oh!  I  hope  not,  your  Majesty,  (rising).  Holy 
St.  Anthony!  My  neck  has  grown  quite  stiff  at  the 
thought ! 

King.  We  leave  you  with  the  duke  who  will  communi- 
cate our  commands.  [Exit.  r.  2  e. 

Bab.  Duke?  Oh!  Monsieur  Antoine,  are  you  a  duke! 
and  such  a  familiar  way  as  I've  treated  you  this  many  a 
year.  If  you  will  only  condescend  to  pardon  me !  (falling 
upon  her  knees  again.) 

Rich.  A  truce  to  this  folly.  Rise  and  listen  to  me. 
Dame,  for  on  your  implicit  obedience  hangs  your  future 
welfare — perhaps  your  life. 

Bab.  Life !  life !  Oh  !  Surely  you  won't  kill  me  ? 
Monsieur  Antoine — I  mean  your  Grace,  consider  my  years 


14  ARMAND;    or,  [Act  I. 

— Mercy !  mercy !     Oh !  my  poor  neck  will  be  stiff  for  a 
year. 

Rich.  Be  silent,  and  listen.  You  were  walking  last 
evening  in  these  gardens  with  Blanche, — by  what  unlucky 
chance  you  came  here — by  what  strange  means  obtained 
admission,  I  have  not  time  to  learn.  The  King  saw 
Blanche — is  enamoured  of  her — desires  that  she  shall  be 
presented  at  court. 

Bah.  Blessed  Mary  !  what  an  honor  !  and  I — his  jMa- 
jesty  saw  me  too — of  course  his  most  gracious  Majesty 
expects  me  to  be  presented  also?  Oh  !  I'm  in  such  a 
flutter — how  shall  I  live  through  it? 

Rich.  Are  you  determined  to  distract  me  ?     Blanche — 

Bab.  I  understand — I  understand — she  is  to  be  pre- 
sented at  court. 

Rich.  She  shall  die  first? 

Bab.  Hey?  what?  die! 

Rich.  Yes,  die ! 

Bab.  Well,  your  Highness,  I  say  nothing. — But  little 
Blanche  !  To  see  her  in  her  grave  !  And  after  all  the 
fine  learning  you  have  given  her  !  And  to  have  her  miss 
being  presented  at  court  too ! — Why  she  always  walked  and 
talked — yes,  when  she  was  but  two  years  old  she  walked 
like  a  queen — and  since  the  King,  his  gracious  Majesty, 
has  so  graciously  looked  upon  her — 

Rich.  Ay! — he  has  looked  on  her  I  And  that  one 
look  has  like  a  flash  of  scathing  lightning  blasted  her  whole 
existence  !    (ci^osses  to  r.  n.) 

Bab.  Well  now  I  can't  understand  where' s  the  harm. 

Rich.  Listen,  Babette.  The  King  has  commissioned 
me  to  conduct  Blanche  to  the  palace — to-morrow  evening  is 
the  latest  moment  to  which  I  can  postpone  his  orders — 
she  must  be  saved  from  the  profanation  even  of  his  suit, 
and  the  energy  of  my  will  alone  can  save  her.  You,  and 
you  only,  can  aid  me — you  must,  you  shall  aid  me  !  To- 
morrow morning  at  your  cottage  I  will  communicate  my 
project,  and  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  exact  the  most  implicit 
obedience. 

Bab.  And  Blanche  won't  be  presented  at  court  ?     Nor 
I  neither  ?     My  lord  Duke,  I  to  refuse  such  an  honor! 
An  honor  that  would  make  half  the  village  die  with  envy  ! 
Enter  r.  2  e.  King  and  Duke  d'Antin. 


Scene  L]  the   peer  AND   THE   PEASANT.  15 

liich.   (seizing  her  by  the  arm)  Fool ! 
I  tell  you  that  JBlanche  never — never — (sees  the  King — 
suddenly  releases  Bubette,  and  changes  his  tone  and  manner) 
never  should  refuse  such  a — such  a  distinguishing  mark  of 
his  Majesty's  favor. 

Bab.  There  now,  that's  just  what  I  said,  your  highness, 
and  you  would  not  listen  to  me.  Just  what  I  was  telling 
him,  your  Majesty!  Such  an  honor  for  us  both. — I  am 
ready  to  expire  at  the  very  thought !  When  Dame  Barbara 
knows  it — but  I  say  nothing — nobody  shall  hear  it  from  me. 

King.  Why,  Duke,  this  is  a  novel  mode  of  proceeding. 
It  seems  you  were  executing  our  orders  h\  force  of  arms  1 

Rich.  Your  Majesty  is  facetious.  This  droll  old  woman 
— ha,  ha,  ha !  I  can't  help  laughing  at  her  tenacity — 
having  conscientious  scruples,  she  refused — 

Bab.  I  ?  I  refused  1  Refuse  such  an  honor  ?  Oh ! 
your  jMajesty — 

Rich,  (aside  to  her)  Another  -word  and  it  shall  cost 
you  dear ! 

Bab.  Oh!  dear!  how  fierce  Monsieur  Antoine  has  grown 
since  he  became  a  Duke ! 

King.  There  is  some  enigma  here  ! 

B'Antin.  Which  your  IMajesty  may  find  diversion  in 
solving,      (aside  to  him.) 

Rich.  Dame  Babette,  you  will  remember  the  directions 
you  have  received,  and  to-morrow — 

Bab.  Then  your  mind  is  changed? — you  consent?  — 
and  to-morrow  we  shall  have  the  honor — such  an  honor — 
Oh !  your  Grace,  when  you  forbade  me  just  now,  I  felt — 

King.  Forbade  you  ?  Why,  Richelieu,  is  the  old  wo- 
man mad  ? 

Rich.  I  believe  so,   sire. — I  really  believe  so! — There, 
you  are  at  liberty  to  go.     That  way — that  way.     [trying  to 
lead  her  towards  the  entrance,  she  takes  a  step 
or  two  and  persists  in  turning  back. 

Bab.  Oh!   I  have  not  saluted  his  gracious  Majesty! 

[bi'eaAs  away  from  Richelieu,  and  curtsies 
low  to  the  King. 
I  wouldn't  have  your  Majesty  think  me  wanting  in  manners 
— when  I  am  to  be  presented  at  court  too.  Such  an  honor! 
You  see.  Monsieur  Antoine — that  is,  his  highness — I  can't 
help  calling  him  Monsieur  Antoine,  on  account— 


IG  armand;    or,  [Act  I. 

Rich.  On  account  of  the  likeness.     His  Majesty  knows 
— you  tire  his  Majesty.   Go!  go!  \tryiny  to  force  her  away. 

Bab.  The  hkeness  ?     What  hkeness?     I  beg  pardon 
for  fatiguing  your  Majesty.     I  was  only  going  to  say — 

Rich,   (still forciny  her)    His  Majesty  djes  not  desire 
to  hear.     Go,  go. 

Bah.  I  am  gone,  soon  as  I  have  made  my  salute. 

[breakiny  from  him,  she  curtsies  ayain  to 

the  Kiny,  crosses,   and  yoiny,  returns. 

The  other  grand-looking  old  gentleman — I  have  not  made 

my  reverence  to  him  yet.     Oh  !   I'll  shew  them   breeding, 

now  that  I  am  to  be  presented  at  court !     [ctpproaches  Duke 

d'Antiri  and  curtsies  low. 

Rich.  Dame — 

Kiny.  Nay,  Richelieu,  we  are  amused  at  her  vagaries. 

Rich.  Oh,  Sire  !     I  see  you  are  much  annoyed. 
Are  you  coming  ?  \to  Babette. 

Bab.  But  his  Majesty  says  he  is  amused,  and —     ^  ^ 

Rich.  Come,  come  I  say  !  [Forciny  her.  I  1^ 

■£V^''^'  \  But  Richelieu—  )>| 

Kiny.     S  I 

Bab.   His  Majesty  says  he  is  amused  !  |  S* 

Rich.  Come  !  come  !  J  ^ 

[King  and  d'Antin,  r.  Richelieu /orc/»^  out 

Babette,  l.  ivho  endeavours  to  return. 


liND    OF    ACT 


Scene  I.]  THE    PEEil    AND   THE    PEASANT.  17 


ACT  IL 

SCENE  I. 

Room  in  the  Cottage  o/Dame  Babette,  r.  h.  f.  open  door, 
L..  H.  F.  large  open  window,  shewing  a  country  scene. 
Chamber  door  right  and  left.  Dame  Babette  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand.  Jaqueline,  seated  on  a  low  stool 
at  window,  making  garlands  of  small  green  branches. 
Chairs  and  tables,  jug  and  tin  cup  on  table. 

Bab.  Well,  well,  the  Duke  must  be  obeyed — and  I 
must  say  nothing  of  his  being  a  Duke; — but  no  fear  of 
that — I  never  talk.  He  will  be  here  presently,  and  I  must 
send  for  Blanche.  Poor  little  Blanche,  she  will  lose  her 
May-day  sport;  but  then  the  honor  of  receiving  a  Duke! 
Here,  Jaquehne,  child,  throw  down  those  garlands,  run  to 
the  green,  and  tell  Blanche  she  must  hasten  home  directly. 

Jaq.  Not  I,  indeed,  mother!  Bid  Blanche  hasten 
home  on  May-day?  I  shan't  think  of  such  a  thing.  Be- 
sides, Blanche  begged  me  to  weave  more  garlands  for  the 
may-pole. 

Bab.  Never  mind  the  garlands,  chatterbox  ;  go  and  tell 
Blanche  she  cannot  dance  upon  the  green  to-day.  I  need 
her  home. 

Jaq.  (still  working  at  the  garland)  Just  as  if  the  villagers 
would  let  her  go,  mother !  They  can  do  nothing  without 
Blanche!      They  would  come  and  carry  her  away  by  force. 

Bab.  Stop  talking,  nimble-tongue!  What  a  fondness 
these  young  ones  have  for  chattering.  Ah!  they'll  be  as 
silent  as  I  am  when  they  grow  old  !  There !  (snatching 
away  the  garland,)  leave  the  green  things  and  go ! 

Jaq.  Blanche  won't  come — I  would'nt  if  I  were  she.  Oh! 
I'll  go;  but  Blanche  shall  have  her  garlands,  if  I  make  them 
on  the  road,  (gathers  up  the  garlands.)  Who  do  you  sup- 
pose would  disappoint  our  Blanche  ?      [rims  out  door,  off  l. 

Bab.  How  fast  the  child  talks!      Where  she  got  her 
fondness  for  chattering,  I  can't  tell;   her  poor  father  was 
as  silent  as  a  post,  and  I'm  sure  its  not  from  me. 
Enter  Jaq,ueline,  running,   r.  d.  f. 

Jaq.  Didn't  I  tell  you,  mother,  they  would  never  let 


18  ARMAND;    or,  [Act  II. 

Blanche  come?  She  insisted,  and  the  villagers  insisted  ou 
coming  along  with  her,  and  they  intend  to  carry  her  away 
again,  (rustic  music  without.)  Hark !  there  is  the  music, 
they  will  be  here  in  a  moment. 

Bah.  The  villagers  coming  here!  Oh  dear.  Oh  dear, 
I  shall  be  ruined  if  the  Duke  finds  them.  Run,  tell  Blanche 
that  I  want  her  alone,  and  they  must  not  enter.  Tell  her 
my  poor  neck — no,  no, — tell  her  they  must  not  come  in. 

Jaq.  I'll  tell  her,  but  she  wont  mind;  I  would' nt  if  I 
were  she.  \Exit.  c.  off  \^.    r.  d.  f. 

Bah.  (music)  There  they  come  sure  enough!  Oh, 
dear,  what  shall  I  do  to  get  rid  of  them!  If  the  Duke 
finds  them  and  gets  angry,  I  shall  die  of  fright !  Oh ! 
my  poor  neck — I  shall  never  again  be  sure  that  I  have  it 
on  my  shoulders.  Blanche  !  Blanche  !  Is  Blanche  coming? 
\^Lusic,  inano,  through  speech — stop  at  end  of  it. 
Enter  Blanche,  r.  d.  f. 

Blan.  Yes,  Dame,  here  is  Blanche. 

Bab.  Good  child  !  good  child  ! 

Blan.  Nay,  Dame,  pay  homage  to  our  Majesty  I 
I'm  chosen  Queen,  dear  Dame,  the  Queen  of  May! 
You  do  not  smile — prithee,  what  serious  thought 
Has  cast  its  grave  reflection  on  thy  face? 

Bab.  I  was  thinking  how  beautiful  a  crown — a  real 
crown — a  crown  of  gold  and  jewels — would  look  upon  your 
head. 

Blan.  A  crown?  Why  you  are  dreaming,  Dame,  at 
mid-day ! 

Bab.  And  if  I  am,  there's  something,  sometimes,  in 
some  dreams — but  I  say  nothing — only  wouldn't  you  like 
to  dream  of  wearing  such  a  crown. 

Blan.  No,  in  good  sooth,  not  I !    This  woven  band 
Of  dewy  wild  flowers  lightlier  girds  my  head, 
And  circles  in  its  ring  but  happy  thoughts! 
Then  for  my  King — whom  think  you  I  have  chosen! 

Bab.  Wait  'till  you  see  the  King  himself. 

Blan.  Has  he  a  nobler  mien — a  loftier  look — 
A  braver,  truer,  purer  heart  than  Armand? 

Bab.  Have  you  forgotten  the  cavalier  who  walked  with 
us  in  the  Gardens  of  Versailles? 

Blan.  No,  I  remember  him, — 'twas  but  last  night. 

Bab.  Then  listen,  what  would  you  say  if  he  were  the 


Scene  L]  the    peer   AND   THE    PEASANT.  19 

King !  the  true  King !  Louis  XV.,  the   King  of  France ! 
Oh  dear !  what  would  you  say  to  that? 

Blan.  "Why  if  he  were  the  King — in  truth  the  King — 
I  could  but  say  that  wayward  nature  played 
On  fortune's  favorite  a  most  idle  trick! 
While  to  the  humble  artizan  she  gave 
The  aspect,  soul,  and  bearing  of  a  king! 

Bab.  Oh  dear,  Oh  dear!  what  a  young  traitor!  Its 
very  fine  talk — yet  for  all  that  there's  a  great  difference 
between  your  Armand  and  the  King — I  mean  the  cava- 
lier. 

Blan.  I  grant  you  that,  dear  Dame,   difference  indeed ! 
How  different  seemed  in  each  like  attributes; 
The  lightness  of  the  cavalier  to  me 
Seemed  senseless  levity,  while  Armand's  mirth 
Is  the  o'erflowing  gladness  of  a  heart 
At  ease.     Each  had  his  separate  pride — one  pride. 
The  scorn  that  narrow  minds  from  narrower  minds 
Inherit.     But  our  Armand's  pride  looks  down 
In  scorn  upon  mean  acts  alone — disdains 
But  falsehood — spurns  but  vice — rebels  against 
Injustice  only — while  he  arrogates 
No  merit  to  his  virtues  !     Men  may  bow 
The  knee  to  royalty,  but  there's  a  more 
Enduring,  and  more  sacred  homage  all 
Must  feel  for  what  is  better  than  themselves! 

Bab.  How  these  young  ones  talk  to  be  sure !  You'll 
sing  a  new  burden  to  your  song  before  long.  You  must 
think  no  more  of  Armand. 

Blan.  What — think  no  more  of  Armand  ?  is  he  not 
The  very  centre  of  my  thoughts,  round  which 
All  feelings  and  all  hopes  alike  revolve. 
As  planets  circle  round  their  sun  ?     But,  Dame, 
Thou  dear,  mysterious  and  oracular  Dame — 
What  boding  dreams  have  mocked  you  through  the  night? 
Or  what  portentous  omens  have  you  seen  ? 
Nay,  speak;   prithee,  what  has  befallen  thee  ? 

Bab.  Oh,  don't  ask  me. — I  say  nothing. — You  know 
I  never  talk. 

(Villagers  ivithout)  Where  is  our  Queen?  our  Queen  ! 
Bring  us  our  Queen  !  [Armand  and  Villagers  appear 

at  window. 


20  armand;    or,  [Act  II. 

Arm.  (without)  Patience,    my  friends,    your  patience 
while  I  seek  her, 
And  for  an  instant  tarry  where  you  are ! 

Enter  Armand  lightly  and  quickly,  r.  d.  f. 
Arm.  Blanche!   Blanche!   Queen  Blanche  !  where  are  you 

dallying  ? 
Your  subjects  grow  rebellious  to  behold  you! 
Ah  !  who  can  wonder  that  they  cannot  live 
From  thy  sweet  sight !     And  I,  the  least  of  all. 
Good-morrow  Dame,  they've  sent  me  here  to  claim 
Our  faithless  sovereign.     Come,  thou  truant  queen. 

Bah.  No  such  thing,  Monsieur  Armand;  Maniselle 
Blanche  remains  where  she  is. 

Arm.  Heyday!  what  next?  ii/ow,s<>2«r  Armand,  forsooth. 
And  Mcanselle  Blanche!  how  courteous  we  have  grown! 
You're  almost  too  polite  Madame  Babette ! 

Bab.  Maniselle  Blanche  cannot  dance  upon  the  green 
to-day. 

Blan.  Not  dance,  dear  Dame,  when  I  am  chosen  queen? 
And  I,  in  turn,   have  chosen  xVrmand  king ! 
Good  Dame  !  dear  Dame  !  indeed,   but  I  must  dance  ! 

Arm.  Are  you  possessed,  my  good  Madame  Babette  ? 
The  villagers  would  tear  your  cottage  down. 
Nonsense  !     Come,  little  queen,  they  wait  for  us. 
The  Dame  is  but  our  subject  after  all ! 
Obedience  is  her  duty,  and  not  ours. 
Good-day,  good  Dame — good-day,  Madame  Babette! 

[Puts  his  arm  around  the  ivaist  of  Blanche,  and 
is  running  with  her  to  the  door.  Babette 
intercepts  them,   and  leads  Blanche  away. 

Bab.  (with  great  dignity)  Stay  where  you  are,  Blanche, 
I  order  you!  You  are  to  receive  a  visitor.  The  Duke  will 
be  here  presently. 

ml]    Tl>eDuke! 

Bab.  Who  said  anything  about  a  Dnke  ?  I'm  sure  I 
did'nt!  My  foolish  tongue.  But  it's  just  like  me — that 
is,  it's  not  at  all  like  me — I  never  talk.  I  mean  Monsieur 
Antoine  will  be  hero,  and  desires  to  sec  Blanche  upon  par- 
ticular business.  Monsieur  Armand,  I  must  request  you 
to  retire. 


Scene  I.]  the    PEER   AND   THE    PEASANT.  21 

Ann.  No;  I  remain  to  bid  Monsieur  Antoine 
Make  haste,  and  tell  him  we  await  our  queen. 

Bab.   (angrily)    Monsieur  Armand,  I  tell  you — 

Blan.  (crosses  c.)  Go,  dear  Armand,  the  Dame  desires 
it— go! 
Come  for  me  in  an  hour.     May  he,  good  Dame? 
Sa}'-  yes — now  do  say  yes — you  smile  the  yes — 
You  will  not  speak — and  a  consent  is  twice 
Consent  that  with  a  smile  is  given.     And  now 
Armand,  for  one  short  hour,  we  say  farewell. 

Arm.  Sweet  sovereign,  I  can  scarcely  disregard 
Your  first  command,  although  this  banishment 
Is  tyranny.     "  Farewell,  I  shall  return 
"  Before  our  garlands  wither,  though  to  me 
*'  Their  freshness  and  their  beauty  vanish  with 
**  The  hands  that  wove  them" — fare  thee  well,  my  Blanche! 
Madame  Bahette  and  dignity,  good  day!         [Exit.  r.  d.  f. 

Bab.  Such  wonders  as  I  have  to  tell  you! — such  won- 
ders!— but  I  shan't  say  anything  about  it.  Only  suppose 
it  was  the  King  w^e  saw  at  Versailles !  I  say  suppose — and 
suppose  that  Monsieur  Antoine  was  a  great  Lord!  Only 
suppose — for  I  say  nothing — I  know  how  to  hold  my  peace. 
Hark!  I  hear  the  wheels  of  a  carriage.  Go  to  your  room, 
child,  for  I  must  speak  with  him  alone.     Go  !  Go  ! — 

Blan.  But,  Dame,  I'm  only  queen  for  one  short  day, 
My  crown  may  fade,  my  sceptre  wither  up 
Before  I  use  them — so  I  pray  thee  haste 
To  free  me.     You'll  remember?  will  you,  Dame? 

[Exit  into  chamber,   r.  2  e. 
Enter  Duke  de  Richelieu,  r.  d.  f. — comes  down  l.  h. 

Bab.  Oh  !  dear,  if  she  only  knew  that  the  King  him- 
self— a  real  King — Oh!  your  Highness,  (brings  chair  down 
c.)  the  walls  of  my  poor  habitation  are  so  honored  by  your 
presence  that  they — 

Rich.  Where  is  Blanche  ? 

Bah.  In  her  chamber,  your  Highness,  waiting  your 
gracious  pleasure.  They  were  just  going  to  dance  upon 
the  green  when  I  sent  for  her.     Shall  I  summon  her  ? 

Rich.  I  first  must  speak  to  you — mark  well  my  words! 
Blanche  must  be  saved — the  King  must  never  more 
Behold  her — to  remove  her  secretly, 
"Would  be  impossible — yet  at  the  risk 


22  ARMAND;    or,  [Act  II. 

Of  life,  be  it  her's  or  mine — or  both — she  shall 
Not  breathe  the  court's  contaminating  air. 

Bab.  But  the  honor,  your  Grace,  the  honor ! 

Rich.  Be  silent,  woman !   at  your  peril  make 
Ready  to  do  my  bidding. 

Bab.  Oh  !  How  terrible  these  grand  people  are !  Mon- 
sieur— I  mean,  my  Lord,  on  my  knees  I  swear  to  obey  you! 

Rich.  That's  well — since  flight  then  is  impossible. 
Death  only  can  protect  her  from  the  King — 

Bab.  Death !  commit  murder  !  Monsieur  Antoine, 
murder  poor  little  Blanche?  Oh!  how  terrible !  But  I 
say  nothing — what  a  Duke  commands  of  course  is  right — 
but  death — Oh  !   my  poor  Blanche  ! 

Rich.  A  seeming  death  may  serve — so  that  the  King 
Shall  think  it  real.     There  are  drugs  which  produce 
A  sleep  that  seems  the  very  twin  of  death. 
Yet  do  not  harm  the  sleeper.     Take  this  phial. 
Its  contents  have  pla^-ed  servants  to  my  wish 
Before  to-day  :  Blanche  too  must  prove  their  power. 
The  liquid,  look,  is  colorless:   'tis  tasteless. 
And  not  immediate  in  its  influence. 
Your  part  is  to  administer  the  draught. 

Bab.  Oh  !  no  Monsieur  Antoine,  I  dare  not  touch  it, — 
I  shall  never  have  courage. 

Rich.  You  have  already  sworn,  you  shall  abide 
Your  oath.     Take  it,  I  say:  act  cautiously, 
And  in  your  act  be  speedy. 

Bab.  This  is  to  deal  with  great  persons  !  What  shall 
I  do?     What  shalll  do? 

Ricfi.  Do  as  I  command  you — be  quick  and  silent ! 

Bab.  Silent,  indeed!  your  Grace,  as  if  I  ever  said 
anything! 

Blan.      (music)  [opening  the  door. 

May  I  come  in  ?      Dear  Dame,   the  stirring  sound 
Of  the  glad  music  through  my  casement  steals — 
My  feet  dance  to  it  of  their  own  accord, 
And  threaten  shortly  to  dance  aftei'  it ! 
1  give  you  warning,  Dame  ! 

Rich.  Come  hither,  Blanche. 

Blan.   (crosses  to  c.)    Monsieur  Antoine — but  is  it  you 
indeed  ? 
Your  face  and  voice  I  know,  or  this  rich  garb 


Scene  I.]         the  peer  and  the  peasant.  23 

Had  well  disguised  you — I  could  half  believe 
It  was  no  jest,  when  Dame  Babette  declared 
That  Monsieur  Antoine  was  a  lord ! 

Bab.  Ah  !  your  Highness,  excuse  her — she  will  talk — 
she  won't  learn  to  say  nothing  as  I  do.  Blanche,  control 
that  little  tongue  of  yours,  lest  it  give  offence  to  his  Grace, 
the  Duke — the  Duke  of  Richelieu  ! 

Blan.  Richelieu!  Oh!  no — Richelieu  that  bold,  bad  man. 
Monsieur  Antoine  whom  I  have  known  so  long — 
Have  loved  so  well — the  Duke  de  Richelieu — no — 
That  cannot  be  ! —  [sinks  into  chair. 

Rich.  Who  taught  the  child  this  folly? 

Bab.  Oh  !  indeed,  your  Grace,  I  didn't — I  never  said 
a  word  about  it  I'm  sure. 

Rich.  Blanche — ha!  she  faints!  Bring  water  and  take  this. 
Fortune,  I  thank  thee!     Take  it. 

\Jiands  her  the  phial  unperceived  bij  Blanche. 

Bab.  I  dare  not!    I  dare  not! 

Rich.  Take  it!      Fool!   (imperativehj). 

Bab.  Oh!  dear,  I  must!     \_takes  the  phial,  goes  to  table^ 
pours  out  water  and  mixes  the  liquid  with  it. 

Rich.  Child,  you  are  ill — 

Blan.  No,  no,  I  am  not  ill — I  was  confused — 
Stunned  at  the  thought — don't  heed  me.     I  am  well  ! 

[Babette  hands  her  the  glass,   turning  away  her  head. 
I  do  not  need  it,  Dame. 

Rich.  (taJdng  the  glass)  Drink,  drink  !  your  lips 
Are  quivering — you  are  fainting — drink  !  you  must — 
Must  drmkl 

Blan.  (looks  icifh  surprise  in  his  face,  and  calmly  takes 
the  glass)     If  you  desire  it,  certainly —  [drinks. 

Rich,   [aside  as  she  is  drinking, 
(laughing)  Richelieu,  when  did  thy  star  abandon  thee! 

Blan.  I  do  not  understand — 

Rich.  Ay,  but  you  shall  I 

Go,  dance,  they  wait  you  on  the  green — 

[crosses  to  Babette  ivho  stands  motio?dess. 
Why  stand 
You  there  as  you  were  petrified  ?     Come,  rouse 
Yourself.     Bid  her  go  dance — Fool!   rouse  yourself ! 
Sweet  Blanche — go  dance — light  foot,  and  joyous  heart! 


24  armand;   or,  [Act  II. 

The  wise  man  cogs  the  dice  and  laughs  at  fate,    (aside) 

[r.  d.  f.  exit  hastily,  off  r. 

Blan.  Why,  Dame — why  do  you  stand  so  motionless  ? 
"Why  gaze  upon  me  thus  with  that  fixed  look 
Of  wondering  terror  ?     Dame, — dear  Dame  Babette, 
Will  you  not  speak  ?  pray  you — do  speak  to  me! 

Bab.  (recovering,  throws  herself  iveeping  upon  Blanche's 
neck)   My  poor,  poor  Blanche! 

Blan.  Poor  Blanche?  nay  Dame,  I  needs  must  laugh 
at  that. 

Bab.  You  seemed  so  happy  ! 

Blan.  Then  did  I — do  I  seem  the  thing  I  am  ! 
Seem  happy^iow  could  I  seem  otherwise? 
'Tis  happiness  to  me  to  live — to  be  ! 
INIy  very  instincts — nay,  the"very  use 
Of  every  separate  sense  by  which  we  hold 
Commiunion  visible  with  external  being 
Is  happiness!     To  gaze  upon  the  sky 
Arched  in  blue  glory  o'er  my  upturned  head — 
The  forms  of  beauty,  called  by  loving  spring 
Out  of  the  affluent  bosom  of  the  earth; 
The  sun,  beneath  whose  warm,  resplendent  light 
All  nature  teems  :  these  simplest,  daily  things, 
Which  custom  cannot  strip  of  loveliness. 
To  look  on  these  is  to  be  happy ! — is 
To  feel  my  bosom  swell  with  gratitude 
To  him  who  made  them,  to  make  us  more  blest! 

Bab.    Oh!  Blanche!   Blanche! 

\inusic  heard  at  a  distance. 

Blan.  Hark !  'tis  the  villagers  ;  they  come  for  me. 
And  Armand,  too,  expects  his  queen.     Good  Dame, 
My  subjects  must  not  wait.     Adieu !   Adieu !  [going. 

Bab.  Blanche!  Blanche!  My  child !  my  kind,  light- 
hearted  child,  embrace  me.  Do  not  go  until  you've  said 
that  you  forgive  me. 

Blan.    (embracing  her  J 
Forgive  you,  Dame !   What  crime  have  I  to  pardon. 
Except,  indeed,  too  doting  love  for  me. 
What  ails  you?     You  are  weeping  ?     What's  the  matter? 

Bab.  No,  no,  I'm  not — I'm  not  weeping.  Oh,  my 
darling  Blanche !  [bursts  into  tears. 

Blan.  Can  I  have  wounded  you,  dear  Dame  ? 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  and  the  peasant.  25 

Bab.  Wound  me?  Did  you  ever  wound  a  fly  ?  I've 
seen  you  brush  away  with  careful  hand  the  very  insect  that 
had  stung  you.  {Music  ivithout.)  They  are  coming  for 
you.     Go  to  the  green.     Go,  go, 

Blan.  First,  with  a  kiss,  let  me  seal  up  the  fountains 
Of  those  dear  eyes,  where  tear  and  smile  contend. 
Like  April  sun  and  rain,  they  know  not  why. 
Now  for  my  crown  and  sceptre.     Dame,  adieu ! 

[As  Blanche  is  running  off  Armand 
appears  at  the  door.    [Exeunt  r.  d.  f. 

Bab.  Blessed  mother,  guard  her  !  That  dreadful  drug! 
If  harm  comes  to  her,  I  shall  never  know  a  happy  hour ! 
Oh,  this  it  is  to  deal  with  grand  people.  Yet  for  all  that, 
he  is  a  duke ;  and  to  be  sure,  what  a  duke  says  must  be 
right.     How  could  a  duke  do  anything  wrong? 

[Ejcit  into  chamber,  r, 

SCENE  II. 

Village  green.  A  maypole  iii  the  centre  dressed  with  long 
garlands  hanging  to  the  ground.  Jaqueline,  Eti- 
enne,  Jacot,  and  Villagers  busied  about  it.  Music 
playing.  Several  Villagers  as  musicians,  with  pipes 
and  tabors. 

Jac.  Give  another  look  towards  old  Babette's  cottage, 
Etienne,  and  tell  us  if  you  see  our  queen. 

Etien.  I  see  two  figures  yonder,  through  the  trees. 
They  turn  this  way.  Yes,  'tis  Blanche,  and  Armand  is 
with  her. 

Jac.  Then  hurrah  for  the  dance,  hurrah  for  the  king 
and  the  queen!  Finish  with  your  garlands,  and  let  us 
dance. 

Enter  Armand  a«J  Blanche  r.  u.  e. 

Arm.  A.J,  for  a  dance,  make  ready,  lads  and  lasses. 
And  be  your  hearts  as  light  as  are  your  feet, 
In  honor  of  the  May.     [Blanche  puts  her  hand  to  her  head 

and  app}ears  to  be  ill. 
Blanche,  you  are  ill ! 
Your  eyes  are  heavy,  and  your  cheek  how  pale ! 

Blan.  Oh !  no,  no,  Armand ;  I  am  well — quite  well. 
And  yet  I  think  my  very  happiness 
Oppresses  me ;  a  faintness  steals  upon 


26  armand;   or,  [Act  II. 

My  yielding  sense,  as  if  it  were  the  languor 
Of  a  content  so  perfect,  it  could  wish 
For  nothing  on  this  earth  it  hath  not  now, 
But  on  the  far-off  future  shuts  its  eyes. 

Arm.  Our  future,  Blanche!     It  must  indeed  be  bright 
To  vie  in  promise  with  the  present  joy ! 
We  live  in  that  which  is,  and  so  defy 
What  maij  be.     Let  the  unknown  future  bring 
Us  years — long  years  of  unimagin'd  woe. — 
It  cannot  steal  the  lustre  from  these  hours, 
•'  Whose  very  memory  would  irradiate 
•*The  darkest,  time  and  fate  can  hold  in  store!" 

Blan.  "  How  should  the  placid  current  of  our  lives 
**  Bear  aught  but  flowers  upon  its  laughing  tide? 
"  And  yet,  I  sometimes  think  to  see  it  ruffled. 
'*  Thou  and  thy  state,  Armand,  are  not  akin; 
"  And  thy  ambition  wakes  my  fear — Yet  why! — 
"  Why  should  he  feel  ambition  to  he  great, 
*'  Whose  nobler  struggle,  in  a  nobler  strife, 
•*  Has  made  him  good''' 

Arm.  *'  My  nature  is  not  cast, 

"  Sweet  Blanche !  in  mould  so  true  and  pure  as  thine 
*'  Ambition  winds  itself  about  the  root 
"  Of  every  vigorous  mind.     Ambition  gives 
•*  The  startling  impulse  to  its  higher  action ! 
"  Ambition  spurs  it  on — sustains — inspires  ! 
*'  And,  rear  the  better  beacon  which  shall  guide 
"  Ambition's  course  aright,  it  is  no  more 
"  A  vice !" 

Blan.         **  Ah!  when  I  listen  to  thee,  Armand, 
*'  I  tremble  lest  the  artizan's  poor  garb 
•'  Should  hide  the  warrior's  danger-loving  heart." 

Arm.   "  Nay,  Blanche,  to  love  my  country  with  my  soul 
**  Is  nor  to  love  the  warrior's  perils — nor 
"  His  triumphs. — All  men,  be  they  high  or  humble, 
''  Owe  to  the  land  that  gives  them  birth  a  tribute  ! 
*'  And  with  his  talents  man  may  pay  the  debt, 
*'  Or  with  his  industry,  or  with  his  blood!" 

Blan.   "  Oh,  never  with  the  last !      I  could  not  live 
**  And  see  thee  pay  it!      How  is  this?  we  both 
'*  Are  grave,  though  this  bright  morn  would  bid  us  think 
"  Of  gladness  only.     Come,  my  king,  be  sure 


Scene  II.]         the    PEER   AND   THE    PEASANT.  27 

"  That  I  shall  chicle  thee,  if  I  trace  a  shadow 
**  Upon  thy  brow." 

Ann.  '"  And  shall  I  not  chide  thee 

"  For  that  white  lip  and  cheek,  on  which  the  rose 
"  So  lately  bloomed?"     Come,  let  us  dance,  my  queen! 
To  quicken  in  thy  veins  the  timid  blood, 
And  stain  these  lilies  with  a  healthier  red. 
Jacot,  Etienne,  are  you  not  ready  yet? 

Jac.  Most  excellent  and  worthy  sovereigns !    we  but 
wait  your  pleasure. 

Arm.  Now,  Blanche,  for  thy  light  foot.     Come,  lads,  a 

dance  !  \_Maypole  dance  with  garlands.     Towards 

the  dose,  Blanche  appeal's  to  grow 

fatigued,  and  falls  suddenly  in  Ar- 

mand's  arms,  as  if  fainting . 

Blan.  Armand,  I  cannot — I  am  weary — stay — 

Arm.  Thou  weary,  Blanche;  whose  airy  foot  were  match 
For  the  blithe  humming  bird's  untiring  wing? 
Great  Heaven  !   How  pale  thou  art !  thou  tremblest,  too  ! 

Blan.  'Tis  only  weariness — so — let  me  rest. — (falls,  c.) 
My  head  is  strangely  heavy,  and  before 
My  eyes  a  floating  vapour  spreads  itself. 
Armand,  I  scarce  can  see  thee. — Art  thou  there? 

Arm.  Blanche!   Blanche!   my  own,  my  only  love  ! 
Oh,  Heaven  !  she  grows  more  ghastly  white.     Etienne ! 
Quick,  fly  for  help, — and  Jaqueline  bring  Babette ! 

[^Exeunt  Jaqueline  and  Etienne,  r.  u.  e. 
How  cold  thou  art !  Speak  to  me,  Blanche!  thou  hearest  me? 
Tell  me  thou  hearest  me ! 

Blan.  Yes,  Armand,  yes, 

I  hear  thee,  my  beloved,  yet  I  feel — 
That  we  are  parting — death — 

Arm.  We  cannot  part ! 

This  is  not  death  !  no,  no,  we  will  not  part! 

Blan.  Nay,  Armand,  war  not  thou  with  heaven's  high  will ! 
Death  cannot  break  the  bond  that  knits  our  souls! 
Shall  I  not  be  thy  bride — there — where  I  go 
To  wait  thee?     For  awhile  we  needs  must  part  ! — ■ 
Death's  icy  finger  chills  and  clogs  my  blood. 
Like  frost  it  falls  upon  my  heavy  eyes — 
And  yet  I  seem  to  see!     A  luminous  mist 
Envelopes  all  things  round  me — through  its  veil 

c  2 


28  armand;    or,  [Act.  II. 

A  threshold  paved  with  Hght  appears — beyond, 
A  land  of  flowers — and  now  bright  forms  in  robes 
Of  radiant  white  are  flitting  ronnd  me — ah! 
They  bear  me  from  thee.     Armand!   Oh!   Armand! 
I  cannot  see  thee — though  I  feel  thine  arms 
Girdle  my  frozen  limbs  ! 

Arm,  Thou  wilt  not  leave  me, 
Distract  me  not — but  once  more  speak — let  me 
Once  more  drink  in  the  music  of  thy  voice! 
Speak  to  me!      Give  me  one  last  proof  of  love. 

Blan.  Armand — I  do — this —     [i-aises  herself  with  an 

effort,  feebly  kisses  him  and  sinks  back  apparently  dead. 
Arm.  'Twas  her  first  kiss! 

Thou  pitying  heaven, — let  it  not  be  her  last ! 
She  is  not  dead!   dost  thou  not  hear  me,   Blanche  ? 
No,  no,  she  is  not  dead!     It  were  to  lose 
The  sun  that  warms  with  life — to  lose  the  light 
That  tells  the  presence  of  that  sun, — it  were 
To  lose  the  air  we  breathe,  to  lose  thee,   Blanche! 
I  stifle  at  the  thought !     My  life's  sole  light 
Is  endless  darkness  now — Oh!   Blanche,  my  Blanche! 
My  earth  and  heaven!   all  peace — all  joys — all  dreams  — 
All  blessings,  and  all  hopes,  are  gone  with  thee! 

[Flings  himself  upon  the  ground  beside  Blanche.    Pea- 
sants group)  around  them.     Tableau.     Slow  Curtain. 


END    OF    ACT    II. 


Scene  I.]        the  peer  and  the  peasant.  29 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Antechamber  in  the  Palace  of  Versailles. 

Enter  Le  Sage  l.  and  Victor  r. 

Vic.  Monsieur  Le  Sage!  our  dear  Monsieur  Le  Sage! 
We  are  overwhelmed  by  the  sight  of  his  Majesty's  affliction. 
One  moment  he  is  hke  an  angry  child  disappointed  of  its 
plaything,  the  next  a  very  woman  deluged  in  tears.  But 
we  can  sympathize  with  him ;  we  know  the  pangs  which  a 
passion  for  th'  illusive  sex  too  surely  inflicts.  We  have 
suffered  ourselves. 

Le  Sage.  Possibly. 

Vic.  His  Majesty's  new  despondency  will  once  more 
shed  a  gloom  over  the  whole  court. 

Le  Sage.  Inevitably  ! 

Enter  Duke  d'Antin,  r.  1  e. 

jy Ant.  Le  Sage  ! 

Le  Sage.  Listantaneously,  your  Highness. 

D'Ant.  My  words  are  for  your  ear  alone. 

Vic.   We  shall  withdraw,  my  Lord.  [j'etires  up  r. 

UAnt.  The  young  peasant  is  dead. 

Le  Sage.  Dejiniiively  I 

jy Ant.  A  death  so  sudden,  so  improbable,  so  unac- 
countable, excites  mistrust.  If  the  report  be  false, — I  have 
my  doubts,  vague  and  unconfirmed,  still  I  doubt  her  death. 
The  King  must  be  persuaded  to  visit  old  Babette's  cottage, 
and  himself  behold  the  corse,  if  corse  there  be.  This 
Doyish  page  can  at  all  times  gain  the  ear  of  Louis.  Often 
when  the  voices  of  our  most  powerful  courtiers  were  un- 
heeded, his  suggestions  have  received  attention.  You 
comprehend  me? 

Le  Sage.  Distinctly  ! 

B'Ant.  His  Majesty  must  cross  this  antechamber  when 
he  leaves  his  apartment.  You  will  remain  here  and  see 
that  the  opportunity  is  not  lost  ? 

Le  Sage.  Decidedly ! 

B'A?it.  I  shall  be  in  the  gardens  an  hour  hence  (crosses 
L.)     You  will  join  me  there.  [Exit  l.  1  e. 


30  armand;    or,  [Act  III. 

Le  Sage.  Punctually ! 

Vic.  (comin (J  forward,  -L.)  fr^(?  consider  his  Grace  the 
Duke  d'Antin  the  most  sonribre  person  o^  our  acquaintance. 

Le  Sar/e.  Incontestabhj  and  induhitahly ! 

Vic.  Henceforth  his  Majesty  may  prove  as  sombre. 
Alas !  unhappy  King ! 

Le  Sage.  Appropriately — has  his  iVIajcsty  taken  a  last 
farewell  of  the  poor  little  peasant? 

Vic.  We  believe  not. 

Le  Sage.  VndeniahJy  his  i\Iajesty  listens  to  your  voice, 
when  he  is  deafly  disposed  to  all  others  ? 

Vic.  You  flatter  vs. 

Le  Sage.  Had  I  been  you  I  should  urgently  have  per- 
suaded him  to  behold  her  once  more. 

Vic.  It  never  occurred  to  us;  and  you  think  tve  should 
do  so? 

Le  Sage.  Seriously;  but  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  would 
inevitably  object. 

Vic.  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  learn  that  ice  can  overrule  the 
Duke. 

Le  Sage.  Profoundly  credulous  as  are  my  inclinations, 
I  must  consider  that  assertion  incredibly  dubious. 

Vic.  (roused)  We  will  give  you  proof,  Monsieur  Le 
Sage, — incontestably — incont  rover  tibly — indisputably — in- 
dubitably multiplied  proof.  The  King  shall  visit  the  Dame's 
cottage  this  very  da}^  and  Richelieu  shall  be  kept  in  ig- 
norance of  his  movements. 

Le  Sage.  JJnavoidably  I  shall  believe  when  unexpectedly 
I  see.  But  look  how  opportunely  his  Majesty  approaches. 
I  leave  you  experimentally  to  disprove  or  confirm  your  as- 
severations, [crosses  l. 

Vic.  Do  you  mean  to  doubt.  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  that 
we  shall  do  the  latter? 

Le  Sage.  Indubitably,  and  I  trust  inoffensively. 

[Exit  L.  H. 

Vic.  We  deem  that  a  malicious  aspersion  upon  our 
character. 

Enter  King  r.  1  e.,   a7id  is  liensively  crossing  the  stage. 
Your  Majesty, — 

King.  Victor,  is  it  you  ?  I  scarcely  know  a  face,  save 
yours,  boy,  I  could  to-day  endure  about  me. 

Vic.   We  are  com —     Your   Majesty  comjiliments  me. 


Scene  IL]       the   peer  AND  THE  peasant,  31 

Alas !  Sire,  your  grief  has  fallen  heavily  upon  our —  upon 
my  heart. 

King.  One  by  one  have  all  life's  joys  been  snatched 
away  from  me,  and  now  to  lose  her  too, — never  to  see  her 
more. 

Vic.  Might  not  your  Majesty  find  your  sorrow  assuaged 
by  the  sight  of  her  still  unchanged  loveliness  ?  Will  your 
Majesty  deign  to  listen  to  the  humblest  of  your  subjects  \ 
If  you  could  but  be  persuaded  to  visit  the  Dame's  cottage, 
—  We  have  a —  /have  a  presentiment  that  you  will  find  a 
sad  consolation  in  the  effort. 

King.  What  matters  it  whither  I  go  ?  The  very  wind 
that  blows  upon  me  can  urge  me  on  or  draw  me  back,  I 
have  lost  all  impulses  of  my  own. 

Vic.  Your  Majesty  then  will  grant  my  petition? 

King.  I  care  not  to  refuse  it. 

Vic.  And  your  Majesty  will  permit  us — that  is  me,  to 
be  your  sole  attendant?  Your  sorrow  would  be  desecrated 
by  the  presence  of  those  that  did  not  share  it. 

King.  Even  so.  The  very  thought  of  beholding  her 
once  again — beholding  her  even  in  the  frosty  arms  of  death, 
reanimates  me.     Yes,  we  will  go, — and  instantly. 

[Exit  R.  H. 

Vic.  (aside)  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  we  shall  convict  you 
of  being  philosophically  and  adverbially  incorrect.  We  at- 
tend your  Majesty.  \Exit  r.  h. 

SCENE  II. 

A  chamber  ^V^DAME  Babette's  Cottage.  Set  doorSy  r.  &  l. 
\st  E.  In  the  centre  a  Couch  upon  which  Blanche 
is  extended  apparently  dead.  White  flowers  upon  her 
brow  and  in  her  hands.  A  white  wreath  hung  at  the 
foot  and  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  At  the  head,  a  table 
covered  with  ivhite,  holding  twelve  candles  in  the  form 
of  a  cross,  eleven  lighted  and  one  extinguished.  Around 
the  couch,  a  group  of  Village  Maidens.  Jaqueline, 
kneeling  at  the  foot.     Arm  and,  standing  at  the  head. 

Arm.  Jaqueline, — my   friends, — grant  what    I   ask. — 
Leave  me  awhile  alone  with  her.     You  loved  her  well, — 
But  I — I —  [bursts  into  tears. 


52  ARMAND;   or,  [Act  in. 

Jaq^.  Our  Blanche  never  denied  a  request  of  yours, 
Armand,  nor  will  we  who  loved  her  so  dearly  do  so. 

\Exit  slowly  and  sorrovjfully,  followed 
by  all  the  maidens. 

Arm.  (after  gazing  awhile  on  Blanche.) 

Oh!   Blanche!   my  own — though  lost — still,  still  my  ownl 
A  little  while  I  yet  may  gaze  on  thee. 
And  in  the  treasury  of  my  soul  may  store 
The  memory  of  each  stiff'ning  lineament 
Where  beauty  lingers  still!      "  It  cannot  be! 
*'  Shall  those  soft  eyes  no  more  look  into  mine, 
"  Nor  veil  themselves  w  hen  with  too  bold  a  joy 
"  I  gazed  within  their  azure  depths?  shall  love, 
"  "With  its  aurora,  tint  thy  cheek  no  more? 
"  The  low,  glad  music  of  thy  voice,  no  more 
"  Sunder  those  gentle  lips,  with  words  that  fell 
"  Like  blessings  on  the  ears  that  took  them  in  ? 
"  My  Blanche!  my  other  and  my  better  self! 
*'  How  weary  seems  the  path  I  thought  to  climb 
"  Thy  hand  in  mine, — thy  smile  to  light  me  on, 
*'  Thy  sunny  presence  to  make  glad  each  step! 
"  Alone  life's  burden  must  be  borne — alone 
*'  The  struggling  heart  crush  underneath  its  weight!" 
A  holy  smile  yet  hovers  on  thy  face. 
As  though  the  angels,  when  they  summoned  thee. 
One  golden  glimpse  of  Paradise  revealed. 
And  left  that  happy  print  upon  thy  lip. 
No,  no!   thou  art  not  lost — we  are  not  parted! 
For  Heavenward  as  my  tearful  eyes  I  tum, 
A  radiant  vision  meets  them  there,  and  bids 
Me  guard  my  soul,  unsullied  by  a  deed 
That  could  divide  us  in  that  land  of  joy! 
My  heart  hath  but  one  wish — my  life  one  hope — 
All  time  one  joy — that  of  rejoining  thee! 

\Sinks  at  the  head  of  the  couch,  and  buries 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

Enter  Victor,  ushering  in  the  King,  l.  d.  1  e. 

[Exit  Victor,  l.  d. 
King.  A  secret  awe  has  paralyzed  my  limbs — 
I  scarcely  dare — {approaching  the  couch,  perceives  Armand) 

Ha!   what  is  this!  a  youth 
O'erwhclmed  with  grief,  kneeling  beside  her  corse? 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  ANt)  The  peasant.  33 

They  said  she  had  no  kin.     Young  man,  rise  up : 
What  sorrow  bows  thee  thus? 

Arm.  It  hes  before  you  ! 

King.  This  maiden,  surely  was  no  kin  of  thine? 

Ar77i.  No  kin;   yet  more,  far  more,  than  kin  could  be  I 
Alike,  we  never  knew  those  tender  ties 
Of  kinship,  which  link  man  to  man — yet  all— 
A  father's,  mother's,  sister's,  brother's  place, 
Each  in  the  other's  soul  had  trebly  filled  ! 

King.  You  loved  her  then? 

Ar7n.  Loved  her  ?  the  earliest  page 

In  memory's  record  held  but  that  young  love. 
From  boyhood  up  to  youth — from  youth  to  manhood — 
Each  tenderer  thought — sublimer  aspiration — 
And  purer  hope  was  woven  with  that  love. 
Our  very  natures  blended  as  we  grew, 
My  spirit,  gentleness  from  her's  imbibed. 
And  her's  its  strength  and  vigor  caught  from  mine  ! 
Our  childish  tears  upon  each  other's  breast 
Were  ever  shed.     Our  childish  laughter  rang 
The  changes  of  its  mingling  mirth  together. 
And  in  each  other's  joy  all  childhood's  blessings 
Were  mirrored — magnified — and  multiplied  ! 

King.  Tell  me  thy  name? 

Arm.  Armand  !   I  have  no  other  ! 

King.  Thy  parentage? 

Arm.  I  know  it  not;   a  foundling 

By  strangers  reared,  I  am  the  people's  child  ! 
From  them  I  know  not  that  I  spring,  yet  would 
Believe  so;   for  I  ask  no  name  save  that 
Myself  shall  win.     I  bless  the  generous  fate 
That  gave  no  noble  blood  to  swell  my  veins. 
For  had  I  from  the  hands  of  accident 
Nobility  received,  I  could  not  prove 
My  juster  title  to  that  high  noblesse 
No  revolutions  level  and  destroy  : 
The  true  noblesse  of  genius  and  of  worth. 

King.  Would'st  thou  not  serve  thy  country? 

Arm.  With  my  sword 

Or  with  my  life. — She  gave  it — should  she  need  it, 
'Tis  hers  ! 

King.   "  Well  answered. — Dost  thou  love  thy  King? 


34  ARMAND  ;    OR,  [AcT.  III. 

Arm,  *'  At  least  I  love  all  virtues  of  all  men  ! 
"  Upon  the  loftier  height  the  man  is  placed, 
**  His  virtues  more  resplendent  shine — his  vices 
"  More  hideous  seem — the  virtues  of  my  King 
"  Above  the  virtues  of  more  common  men — 
"  I  prize  for  they  have  wider  sphere  of  good. 

King.  *'  Thy  speech  is  something  less  than  frank. 

Arm.  •'  I  meant 

"  It  frankly;   I  have  never  yet  had  cause 
"  To  blush  for  my  free  thoughts,  why  should  I  hide  them? 

King.  Thy  boldness  pleases  me ;  Armand,  to  day 
Thy  King  saddles  for  Fontenoye. — Join  thou 
His  battle  line,  and  in  the  warrior  ranks, 
AYhere  sure  distinction  must  on  valour  wait. 
Upon  the  beaten  foeman's  banner  write 
The  name  thy  worth  shall  win. 

Arm.  My  heart  leaps  up 

Even  at  the  thought. — My  choice  had  asked  no  more — 
To  die  in  battle  for  my  country ! — What 
Is  left  me  on  this  earth  to  live  for  now  ? 

King.  Nay,  live,  that  I  may  cancel  valour's  claim 
With  noble  meed. 

Arm.  Who  then  art  thou? 

King.  Thy  King  ! 

Arm.  (kneeling)  INIy  liege  ! 

King.  Aha !  thy  words  are  free,  and  yet 

Thy  knee  can  bend,  it  seems. 

Arm.  When  Duty  bids 

My  liege,  it  is  as  proud  to  bend,  as  when 
To  all  compulsion  it  disdains  to  bow.  [Pause. 

King.  Arise,  Armand;  the  King  but  seldom  sees 
His  subjects'  hearts  unveiled.     I  value  thine 
Because  I  trust  it.     Hence,  w  ithout  delay  ; 
At  noon  the  Captain  of  my  Guard  will  know 
My  wishes — seek  him  at  that  hour  thou; 
When  next  we  meet,  be  it  at  Fontenoye ! 

Arm.  My  liege,  not  with  my  lips,  but  with  my  sword 
My  gratitude  shall  thank  thee  !  [going,  returns. 

Must  I  leave 
Thee,  Blanche?     But  no,  I  will  return  to  take 
One  last  farewell.     My  liege,  at  Fontenoye 
My  arm  shall  prove  my  words.  AtFontcnoye!    [E.cit  l.  1  e. 


Scene  II.]       the   peer  AND  the   PEASANT.  35 

King,   (approaching  the  couch,  and  gazing  at  Blanche) 
How  potent  is  the  sight  of  thee,  O  death! 
In  quelHng  ruder  passions.     Had  she  lived 
I  should  have  crushed  this  man,  her  lover,  like 
A  worm  beneath  my  foot !     Bereft  of  Blanche, 
His  woe,  is  mine — and  sympathy  would  seem 
To  level  me  half-way  to  him,  or  raise 
Him  to  half-fellowship  with  me  !  \^goes  to  couch. 

How  passing  fair !     The  hand  of  death  itself 
Hath  only  robed  her  in  new  loveliness  ! 

Enter  Richelieu,  l.  1  e. 

{after  advancing  a  step  in  the  room, 
he  starts  at  beholding  the  King. 

Rich,  (aside)  His  Majesty  !  great  heaven,   how  came 
he  hither  ? 
The  hour  of  her  reviving  must  be  near. 
Nay,  at  this  very  moment  animation 
May  to  her  dormant  form  return. — All's  lost 
Unless — Your  Majesty —  [approaching  him. 

King.  Ah  !   Richelieu,  look  ! 

Rich.  This  vain  indulgence  of  your  sorrow,  sire, 
Is  to  yourself  injurious. 

King.  Richelieu — no — 

Look — death  itself  hath  lost  its  wonted  terrors, 
Touching  her  beauty  but  to  borrow  it ! 
Heath,  did  I  say  ?     It  doth  not  seem  like  death  ! 

Rich,  (inuch  agitated)  Not  seem  like  death  ?     I  pray 
your  Majesty, 
Permit  me,  sire — let  me  conduct  you  hence. 
¥       King.  Not  yet — not  yet. 

Rich.  I  do  implore  you,  sire — 

Ki?ig.  How  came  the  scythe  to  mow  this  lily  down 
So  soon — so  suddenly — so  timelessly  ! 
How  know  I,  but  the  same  unholy  means 
That  robbed  me  of  the  beauteous  Chateauroux, 
Again  have  snatched  away  the  thing  I  loved  ? 
If  'twere  so,  my  rage — 

Rich.  Nay,  good  my  liege, 

Poison  had  left  its  blackening  trace. 

King.  True,  true, 

It  could  not  be.     Oh,  holy  Powers!   what's  this? 
Her  lifeless  hand — is  it  the  v^'armth  of  niiue 


36  aRxMANd;   or,  [Act  III. 

That  lends  it  thus  a  heat  unnatural? 

No  death-like  ice  is  here — 'tis  scarcely  cold ! 

Ilick.  Confusion!  she  revives!  (aside)  My  liege,  my  liege. 
These  cheating  phantasies — Your  fevered  brain — 
Pardon — but  you  must  hence  ! 

King.  Surely  a  tinge 

Of  faintest  rose  is  spreading  o'er  her  cheek  I 

Rich.  Sire,  for  the  love  of  Heaven — 

King.  Saw  you  not  that? 

Her  spotless  drapery  stirs — her  bosom  heaves — 

Rich.         [^passing  between  the  King  and  Blanche  so 
as  to  j)r event  his  seeing  her. 
There  is  no  warmth — no  tint  of  red — no  breath — 
It  was  the  air  that  dallied  with  her  robe  ! 
She's  dead  !     Your  reason,  sire — pardon  this  force 
Which  love  emboldens  me  to  use. — I  fear 
To  see  your  reason  by  these  phantasies 
Unsettled ! 

King.  Ay,  it  is,  or  will  be  soon  ! 

I  cannot  think  her  dead. — I  saw  her  move — 
Look  !  look  !  she  breathes  ! 

Rich.  Nay,  sire,  j-our  reason  wanders. 

\Jiurries  him  to  the  door 

King.  I  cannot  leave  her  thus. — But  one  last  look  ! 

[^turning  bach. 

Rich.         My  liege,  not  for  the  universe — not  one  ! 

[Exit,  forcing  out  the  King,  l.  1  e. 

Blan.   (gradually  reviving) 
They  part — they  leave  me — further,  further  still 
They  softly  float, — dimmer  and  dimmer  grow 
The  bright  celestial  forms. — Sing  on,  sing  on. — 
Close  not  my  cars  to  those  seraphic  strains  \ 
They  cease — the  angel  visions  fade — all's  hushed  ! 

[gating  roioid  her  surprised. 
'Tis  our  own  cottaore  !  all  the  rest  has  vanished  ! 

o 

The  tuneful  voices — and  the  flitting  shapes, 

Where  are  they  ?     Flowers  upon  my  brow — spring  flowers 

Within  my  hand  ?     Ah  !   I  remember  now, 

'Twas  ]May-day — 1  was  chosen  queen — we  danced, 

And  then — Armand — in  Armand's  arms  I  swooned  ! 

Where  is  he  ?   (rising.)   I  am  weary — and  how  feeble ! 

Could  I  but  see  Armand!   where  lingers  he  ? 


Scene  II.]         tIIE    PEER   AND   THE    PEASANT.  37 

Enter  Richelieu,  l.  1  e. 
Monsieur  Antoine— Monsieur — but  no — what  was't 
They  told  me  ?  all  my  thoughts  are  so  confused^ — 
These  flowers  recall— 'Tis  May-day,  is  it  not  ? 

liich.  It  was  so  yesterday.     May-day  is  past ! 

Blan.  'Tis  strange  !  how  could  the  hours  so  swiftly  fly? 
Did  they  not  tell  me  you  were  now  a  Duke  ? 

Rich.  The  Duke  of  Richeheu,  and  'tis  even  so  ! 

Blan.  Ah  !  were  it  any  other  Duke — 

Bich.  Enough  ! 

Your  lips  should  be  the  last  to  breathe  my  name 
In  other  tone  than  that  of  reverent  love  ! 
With  calmness  hear  me — four  and  twenty  hours, 
Nay  more,  you've  lain  upon  that  couch  in  sleep 
So  silent  and  profound  that  all  but  I 
And  Dame  Babette  believe  you  dead ! 

Blan.  \turnmg  and  gazing  in  astonishment  at  the 

couch,  ^^c. 
Dead!  dead! 

Rich.  Aye,  dead  !  and  dead  to  all  but  us 

You  must  remain,  for  reasons  that  demand 
And  justify  the  harmless  cheat  ! 

Blan.  No  cheat 

Is  harmless,  and — 

Rich.  Of  that  not  thou,  but  I 

Am  judge.    All  is  prepared  for  flight — this  hour 
You  will  be  borne  to  a  far-distant  home. 

Blan.  My  lord,  I  own  I  have  been  used  to  bow 
With  reverence  to  your  words. — I  knew  you  then 
But  as  an  humble  citizen,  the  friend 
And  guardian  of  a  child,  who  had,  alas  ! 
No  guardian  else  but  heaven  !     I  loved  you — 
I  obeyed  you — for,  my  lord,  you  never  asked 
What  in  obeying  I  obeyed  not  heaven  ! 
I  know  you  now  as — Richelieu  !     And  your  first 
Request  should  make  me  shrink  from  you !     My  lord. 
You  bid  me  stoop  to  falsehood — I  refuse  ! 

Rich.  No  more — thy  words  as  little  move  my  will 
As  winds  the  rocks.     Prepare  thou  to  obey ! 

Blan.  Not  that  command  which  in  my  conscience  finds 
No  quick  response.     I  know  your  power,  my  lord, 
I  also  know  the  strength  of  a  resolve 


38  ARMAND;    OR,  [ACT  III. 

"Which  mine  own  heart  approves.  Nay — spare  your  threats — 
They  fright  me  not — I  never  learnt  to  fear ! 

Rich.  Learn  then  my  right  to  claim  and  to  enforce 
Compliance  to  my  wish — it  is  the  right 
Of  a  determined /«^/ier  o'er  a  child  ! 

Blan.  A  father? 

Rich.  This  very  day  completes  the  weary  round 
Of  twenty  years,  since  from  her  friends  and  kin 
Thy  mother  fled. — In  secret  we  were  wed. 
Two  years  she  lived  unknown, — and  died  the  hour 
Thy  infant  head  was  pillowed  on  her  breast! 
My  child  !  the  sins  of  Richelieu  are  not  few, 
*'  And  every  eye  is  quick  to  magnify, 
"  And  every  voice  is  loud  to  trumpet  them." 
Yet  one — one  ray  of  virtue,  like  a  beam 
Of  sunshine  stealing  in  a  lazar-house. 
Amongst  them  dwells  ;  it  is  his  love  for  thee  I 

Blan.   {throwing  herself  in  his  arms)   My  father  ! 

Rich.  Ah,  though  Richelieu  claims  that  title, — 

Richelieu  from  whom  so  late  you  trembling  shrank, 
My  child,  thou  wilt  not  banish  from  thy  lips 
That  tender  name. 

Man.  ^Q,  father!  it  is  not 

For  me,  even  were  I  not  thy  child,  to  judge  thee. 
But  Armand,  dear  Armand,  knows  he  not  tliis? 

Rich.  Armand  is  henceforth  nought  to  Richelieu's 
daughter. 

Rlan.  My  father,  oh!  my  father,  leave  me  still 
My  poverty — leave  me  my  humble  state — 
Take  hack  a  father's  name — a  father's  love^ 
For  lack  of  which,  the  first  warm  tears  that  scorched 
My  infant  eyes  were  shed  ; — but  rob  me  not 
Of  Armand.     Hark!  it  is  his  step.     He  comes. 

\as  she  is  springing  to  meet  him  Riciiki.iku 
siezes  her. 

Rich.  Hush!  not  a  word.     This  folly  must  end  here. 

Ar7n.   (without)  Babctte!  Babette!  ''tis  I. 

Blan.  Armand !     Armand ! 

Rich.  Obey  my  will, — this  way  with  me — no  cry  ! 

[Jiurrijing  her  to  her  chamber,   u. 
Resistance  would  be  useless. — Girl,  bethink  thee, 
It  is  thy^aMer  that  commands.  \at  the  last  words 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  and  the  peasant.  39 

he  releases  her  arm,  Blanche  bows  her  head 
and  passes  before  him.     Exeunt  r.  1  e. 
Enter  Arm  and,  l. 
Arm.  One  more 

Farewell, — the  last,  and  all  is  over  !     Gone! — 
Why  have  they  borne  her  hence?     It  was  the  sole 
Sad  pleasure  which  I  craved,  but  once  again 
To  look  upon  her. — It  is  better  thus. 
I  would  not  be  unmanned  anew! 

Blan.   (in  a  faint  voice  within)  Armand  ! 
Arm.  It  was  her  voice  1  Oh,  Heaven !  the  voice  of 
Blanche  1 
Angelic  spirit,  didst  thou  breathe  my  name  ? 
Or  is  it  thou — vain  torturer.  Fancy — thou — 
Her  voice !  henceforth  each  wind  that  sweeps  the  earth 
Will  waft  it  to  my  ear — rock,  wood,  and  glen 
Repeat  the  sound,  and  all  melodious  tones 
Those  well-known  accents  imitate  !     "Her  form 
"  Will  paint  itself  upon  the  empty  air, 
"  The  fleecy  clouds  will  take  no  other  shape, 
*'  xlnd  all  things  beauteous  in  that  mould  divine 
"  Seem  cast."     My  thoughts  will  madden  me  1  and  yet 
I  cannot  tear  myself  away.     Each  dear 
Familiar  object,  by  her  touch  so  hallowed — 
The  casement  where  she  watched  till  I  should  come — 
Yon  couch  where  last  she  lay  in  dreamless  slumber — 
And  these —  (gathering  up  the  flowers  which 

Blanche  has  dropped. 
these  flowers  that  in  unconscious  sweetness 
Bloomed  in  her  deatli-co.ld  hand,  and  that  shall  now 
W^ither  upon  my  breast  as  she  has  withered. 
But  dwell  there  as  she  dwells  in  spite  of  death. 
All,  all,  with  blended  voices,  strangely  real. 
Would  seem  to  bid  me  stay  1  would  chain  me  here, 
As  though  with  cords  invisible  they  bound 
Me  still  to  hope  and  her !     Away !  away  ! 
My  nature  grows  too  soft.     Farewell  for  aye 
My  early  dreams — farewell  ray  ideal  world. 
Peopled  by  joy  and  hope — farewell  for  ever  I    \Exit  l.  1  e. 
(as  he  rushes  out,  the  door  q/" Blanche's  chain-- 
ber  opens,  and  she  breaks  from  Richelieu, 
who  is  endeavouring  to  withhold  her. 


40  armand;  or,  [Act  III. 

Blan.  Armand,  come  back.     'Tis  Blanche.     She  hves! 

Rich.  My  child ! 

Hold,  I  command  thee  ! 

Blan.  Call  me  not  thy  child ! 

Oh !  what  to  me  are  nature's  chance-knit  ties 
To  those  that  with  rude  hand  thou  sunderest  now? 
It  is  the  spirit's  purer,  strouger  bonds 
Through  life — through  death — to  all  eternity 
Unchanging,  holy,  indestructible, — 
That  join  my  soul  to  Armand  !     Part  us  not  I 
My  father — Oh,  my  father,  part  us  not. 

[^falls  at  the  feet  q/* Richelieu. 
Quick  curtain. 


END   OF    ACT   III. 


Scene  I.]  THE    PEER   AND    THE    PEASANT.  41 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 
Room  in  an  Hotel  in  Paris.     Babette  and  Jaqueline. 

Bah.  Well,  here  we  are  in  Paris  again.  Out  of  that 
old  gloomy  convent  at  last ! 

Jaq.  Only  to  think  of  Mam'selle  Blanche  managing  to 
get  us  all  free,  though  she  did  take  five  years  about  it. 
Now  how  did  she  contrive  to  do  that  1 

Bab.  By  talldng,  child ;  it  was  all  done  by  talking. 
Ah  !  she  has  a  tongue  could  wheedle  an  angel  out  of  its 
wings  ;  though,  for  my  part,  I  think  it  best  to  be  silent. 

Jaq.  Why  would  she  come  to  Paris?  Pm  sure  I 
wouldn't  have. 

Bah.  That's  her  affair.  You  know  she  will  have  her 
own  way,  and  does  with  us  all  just  what  she  pleases.  She 
heard  that  the  King  was  holding  his  court  in  Paris,  and 
thought  that  her  father,  the  Duke  de  Richelieu — Oh,  dear, 
to  think  that  the  father  of  our  little  Blanche  should  be  a 
Duke  !  what  an  honor,  though  he  did  shut  her  up  in  a 
convent,  and  made  all  the  villagers  believe  that  she  was 
dead — well,  she  thought  the  Duke,  her  father,  must  be  in 
Paris  too,  so  she  chose  to  come  here.  And  do  you  know 
that  Blanche  has  written  twice  to  the  Duke  and  told  him 
where  we  are. 

Jaq.  Perhaps  the  letters  won't  reach  him  !  I  hope  they 
won't. 

Bah.  Won't  they  though  ?  One  of  them  will  reach 
him  sure  enough,  for  whom  do  you  think  I  gave  it  to  this 
very  morning  ? — But  no  matter,  I  shan't  say  anything 
about  it. 

Jaq.  Well  don't,  mother,  for  its  all  one,  if  the  letter  is 
sure  to  reach  him.  That's  the  very  way  to  make  her  tell 
all  about  it.  \aside. 

Bah.  Reach  him  ?  Why,  Monsieur  Le  Sage  said  he'd 
put  it  in  the  Duke's  own  hands.  I  came  upon  our  old  friend, 
Le  Sage,  all  of  a  sudden,  just  in  front  of  this  very  house. 
And  how  glad  the  good  man  was  to  see  me  !  so  I  told  him 
all  our  adventures. 


4:2  armand;   or,  [Act  IV. 

Jaq.  What!     You  told  him  everything  ? 

Bab.  That  is,  I  told  him  nothing.  He  asked  me  an 
hundred  questions — but  I  never  talk,  so  I  said  nothing. 

Jaq.  Ilark !   There  is  a  knoek. 

Bab.  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  it  is  the  Duke  himself. 
"What  shall  I  do  ?  My  neck  grows  so  stiff  again,  just  as  it 
always  does  when  I  think  of  him. 

Jaq.  Nonsense,  mother — don't  be  afraid  of  him — I 
wouldn't.  And  I'm  sure  he  can't  alarm  Mam'sclle  Blanche 
very  easily. 

Bab.  That's  true,  send  her  here,  for  I  shall  never  have 
courage  to  face  him. 

Jaq.  But  I  would!  so  would  Mam'selle  Blanche;  you'll 
see  how  quietly  she'll  look  at  him.  I'll  warrant  he'll  be 
glad  enough  to  look  away — just  wait  till  she  comes! 

[_Exit  Ja  QUE  LINE,    R.  1  E. 

Enter  Duke   of  Richelieu,   l.  1  e.,  Babette   curtsies 
very  low  and  looks  much  frightened. 

Rich.  So!  it  is  indeed  you,  and  you  are  here  in  Paris, 
in  spite  of  all  my  precautions. 

Bab.  Well  I  believe  it  is  I,  3^our  eminence — and  I  be- 
lieve I  am  here — but  it  was  all  Mam'selle  Blanche;  you 
see,  your  highness,  she  can  do  what  she  pleases  with 
everybody.     I  hope  you  won't  blame  me,  for  indeed — 

Rich.  Enough  of  this — how  does  Blanche? 

Bab.  Ah,  very  badly  indeed — she  pines  for  Armand 
night  and  day — but  I  forget,  your  highness  does  not  know 
who  Armand  is. 

Rich.  Know  him?    I  would  to  heaven  I  knew  him  not! 
The  peasant-colonel!   Vilhers'  aid  de  camp! 
The  king's  new  favorite!   fortune's  chosen  minion! 
No  battle  but  Distinction  and  Success, 
Like  unseen  genii,  wait  upon  his  steps; 
Upon  the  field  he  saved  his  monarch's  life. 
And  when  the  king,  too  weakly  generous. 
Would  have  ennobled  him,  the  nameless  peasant 
Refused  in  scorn  all  title  save  the  one 
His  sword  had  won  him. — Let  him  rise  awhile; 
The  higher  pinnacle,  the  greater  fall! 

Bab.  O  dear,  O  dear!  what  will  Mam'selle  Blanche  say 
to  all  this? 

Rich.  Blanche  say?    Dare  thou  to  breathe  a  single  word 


Scene  I.]  the    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  43 

Of  that  my  thoughtless  folly  has  revealed, 
And  in  a  dungeon's,  not  a  convent's,  walls, 
Shall  your  next  tale  he  told,  (crosses  r.)  She's  here,  retire! 
[Exit  Babette,  l.  1  E.;  enter  Jaque- 
LiNE,  who  exits  with  Babette. 
Enter  Blanche,  r. 

Blan.  My  lord  Duke  !  [Pauses  and  looks  at  him. 

Nay,  my  father !  can  I  choose 
But  call  thee  by  that  name  ?  though  in  thy  face 
Too  little  of  a  father's  fondness  greets  me  ! 

Rich.  Yield  thou  the  meet  obedience  of  a  child, 
And  all  a  father's  fondness  will  requite  it  I 

Blan.  Command  thou  what  a  child's  pure  heart  must  leap 
To  execute,  and  I  will  yield  a  child's 
Obedience,  with  the  meekness  of  a  child. 

Rich.  What  I  have  done  was  for  thy  surest  good. 
Ay !  for  thy  soiiVs  best  good  ! 

Blan.  My  soul's  best  good  ! 

Was't  for  my  soul's  best  good  my  tongue  should  mock 
The  consecrated  altar  with  a  lie? 
Was't  for  my  soul's  best  good  my  lips  should  breath 
A  vow  my  heart  refused  ?  the  holy  oath 
Which  gave  the  thought,  the  hope,  the  love  to  heaven, 
W4iich  were  no  longer  mine  to  give ! 

Rich.  Daughter! 

Thy  will  opposed  to  mine  is  powerless  ! 

Blan.  My  father,  tempt  me  not  to  evil — think 
Before  you  act!   young  blood  is  warm — young  heads 
Are  rash — young  hearts,  convulsed  like  mine,  are  stubborn  ! 
When  love — the  soul's  first  love  and  last — the  love 
No  absence  changes,  and  which  time  and  sorrow 
Chastise  to  strengthen — is  too  fiercely  curbed. 
Its  passion  breaks  all  other  ties — defies 
All  chances  and  all  perils — leaps  all  barriers. 
That  hold  or  part  it  from  its  idol — or 
Dragged  by  a  chain  too  mighty  to  the  earth. 
The  iron  eats  its  slow  and  silent  way 
Into  the  soul — and  then — we  die — my  father  ! 

Rich.  I  know  thy  sex  too  well,  girl,  at  its  tears 
Or  wrath  to  change  my  purpose, — woman's  grief 
Is  wind  and  rain  one  summer  hour  will  end. 

Blan.  And  canst  thou  thus  the  name  of  woman  scorn, 

D  2 


44  armand;    or,  [Act  IV. 

Her  holy  mission  lightly  look  upon ; 

Nor  think  that  thy  first  sighs  were  soothed  hy  her? 

Thy  first  tears  kissed  away  by  woman's  lips — 

Thy  first  prayer  taught  thee  at  a  woman's  knee — 

Thy  childhood's  blessings  shower'd  from  woman's  hand — • 

Thy  manhood  brightened  by  her  watching  smile —   . 

Thj  age  must  in  her  tenderness  find  prop — 

And  life's  last  murmurs  may  perchance  burst  forth 

Where  they  began — upon  a  woman's  breast? 

Rich.  I  nor  deny  her  virtues,  nor  her  power 
To  gild  them  with  her  tongue.     But  one  word  more 
Of  Armand.     Woman  may  be  constant — when 
Was  man?  what  wouldst  thou  think?  how  wouldst  thou  act 
If  Armand's  troth  w^ere  plighted  to  another? 

Blan.  Another  ?  Armand  love  and  Armand  wed 
Another?     No  !  the  present  could  not  thus 
Belie  the  past!     Yet  is  it  true  he  thought — 
Still  thinks  me  dead  ;  but  death  could  only  part. 
Not  disunite  us  !     Armand  love  another — 
Oh  wretch !  to  wrong  his  memory  with  the  thought ! 
Armand  has  not  forgotten  me — 'tis  false  ! 
Tell  me  'tis  false !  and  for  the  life  you  give 
Me  back,  I'll  bless  thee  more  than  for  the  life 
I  had  at  first  from  thee ! 

Rich.  In  calmer  tone 

One  question  I  would  have  thee  answer — listen. 
If  I  could  give  thee  proof  unquestionable, 
Would'st  thou  the  cloister  seek  of  thy  free  will? 

Blan.  I  would. 

Rich.  Swear  that  thou  wilt ! 

Blan.  There  needs  no  oath. 

I  know  not  falsehood,  father. 

Rich.  I  believe  thee. 

To  night  I  will  return — remember  thou 
Thy  words — to  night!  Exit  l.  I.e. 

Blan.  Armand  !  was  it  for  this 

For  five  long  years  I  hoped — for  this  I  bore 
With  patient  trust  the  ills  fate  heaped  upon  me ! 
For  this  I  would  not  wrong  thee  by  a  doubt ! 
All— all — for  this — this  hour  of  agony  ! 

[Sinks  weeping  upon  a  couch,   and 
after  a  pause  rises  calnilg. 


Scene  I.]        the  peer  and  the  peasant.  45 

Let  me  not  murmur  at  thy  high  decrees, 
All-wise,  all-watching,  and  all-guarding  Heaven  ! 
I  know  no  withered  leaflet  falls  to  earth — 
No  blade  of  grass  bursts  from  its  sheath  of  green  ; — 
No  grain  of  sand  is  swallowed  by  the  wave — 
Unnoted  by  that  ruling  Providence 
That  guides  the  universe,  yet  stoops  to  clothe 
The  flower  with  beauty !     And  from  seeming  ills 
Works  out  our  truest,  most  enduring  good  ! 
"  Oh !  then  while  grass,  and  sand,  and  leaf  are  cared  for, 
"  How  shall  a  mortal  doubt  thy  guardianship!'^ 
Then  break  not  heart!  the  will  of  Heaven  be  thine! 
Enter  Jaqueline,  l.  1  e. 

Jaq.  Oh!  Mademoiselle  Blanche!  there's  such  a  hand- 
some young  man  waiting  to  speak  to  you — he  has  a  letter 
to  deliver,  and  he  says,  he  will  only  give  it  into  your  own 
hands — I  hope  you'll  see  him — I'm  sure  I  would! 

Blan.  A  letter,  and  for  me,  yes,  let  him  enter? 

Jaq.  Oh  !  I'm  so  glad  you  will  see  him — that's  just 
what  I  would  have  done — and  he's  such  a  charming  little 
creature.  [Exit  l.  1  e. 

Blan.  "Whence should  he  come?  I  have  no  friends  in  Paris. 
Ent^r  Jaqueline  with  Victor,  l.  1  e. 

Jaq.  Oh !  the  beautiful  little  fellow !  I  hope  she'll 
listen  to  him!   I  know  I  would!  [Exit  l.  1  e. 

Vic.  Most  lovely  recluse,  pardon  our  intrusion,  and 
pardon  us,  that  we  rejoice  in  this  opportunity  of  performing 
our  mission  with  becoming  privacy. 

Blan.  I  think  you  have  a  letter  for  me.  Sir  ? 

Vic.    We  have  a  letter  to  deliver  and  a  reply  to  learn. 

Blan.  Wiirt  please  you.  Sir,  to  let  me  see  the  letter  ? 

Vic.  We  intend  to  do  so  forthwith — but  haste  is  most 
uncourtierlike — and  you  perceive  that  loe  are  of  the  Court  ! 

Blan.  I  should  like  much  to  see  the  letter.  Sir. 

Vic.  It  never  yet  has  been  our  study  to  gainsay  the 
wishes  of  the  *'  illusive  sex,"  of  which  our  judgment  now 
pronounces  you  the  fairest,  and  your  impatience  thus  we 
gratify.  [very  pompously  pi'esents  letter. 

Blan.   (reading  aside.) 
One  who  would  serve  you — one  who  learnt  hy  chance 
Your  history,  writes  these  lines — petnls  unseen 
Are  thread ning  you — the  King  alone  can  save  yoxi  ! 


46  ARMAND;    or,  [Act  IV. 

Consent  to  meet  the  par/e  ivho  brings  yon  this — 

At  sunset  at  the  TuiUeries  eastern  gate. 

It  is  the  custom  of  his  Majesty 

To  walk  within  his  garden  at  that  hour, 

The  page  ivill  bring  you  to  his  presence — all 

The  rest  lies  with  yourself. — A  Friend.     The  King 

Yes,  he  alone  can  save  me  from  the  cloister, 

Can  give  me  back  to  Armand — Armand — whom 

I  still  think,  true  !  young  Sir,  I  pray  you  thank 

The  writer  of  these  lines — I'll  do  his  bidding. 

Vic.    We  congratulate  you  on  this  wise  decision,  and 
with  regret  must  now  take  our  hasty  leave.     [Exit  bowing 

very  low,  l.  1  e. 

Blan.  All  thanks  to  thee,  kind  Heaven !  for  once  again 
My  path  is  clear!   the  King,  the  King,  shall  guard  me! 

[Exit  L.  H.  1  E. 

SCENE  II. 

Garden  of  the  TuiUeries,  at  sunset.     Enter  KiyiG  followed 
by  Victor,  l.  u.  e. 

King.  Well,   boy,  what  would' st  thou  from  our  bounty 
now? 

Vic.  My  Liege,  the  boon  I  crave —    [trumpet  ivithout. 

King.  What  trumpet's  that? 

Vic.  News  from  the  seat  of  war,  methinks;  the  bearer — 

King.  Armand  himself! 
Enter  Armand  hastily,  l.  u.  e.,  Jcneels  to  the  Ktng,  and 
presents  dispatches. 

Arm.  Pardon,  my  gracious  Liege, 

That  I  appear  thus  hastily  before  thee! 
Good  tidings  should  have  wings,  to  race  the  wind. 
Another  victory! 

King.  Which  could  not  wait 

For  form  thou  think' st?  Armand,  our  favor  gives  thee 
A  license  few  would  dare  to  use  ! 

(to  Victor)  Retire!    [Exit  Victor,  l.  u.  e. 

(reading  despatches)  Brave  news — most  glorious  news!  my 

gallant  soldier! 
The  victory  was  thine — the  INIarshal,  says  so — 
It  earns  thee  once  again  the  rank  and  title 
Thou  hast  refused  before ! 

Arm,  My  Liege,  my  sword 


Scene  II.]         the    PEER   AND    THE    PEASANT.  A7 

Hath  won  me  all  I  covet  or  deserve  ! 

I  would  not  that  your  favor — but  my  deeds 

Should  of  my  fortunes  be  the  artizan! 

King.  But  wherefore,   Armand,  wilt  thou  coldly  spurn 
"What  others  as  their  dearest  birth-right  prize? 

Arm.   "  And  why,  the  trappings  and  the  adjuncts  vain 
"  With  which  the  great  enshroud  themselves,  to  awe 
"  A  gaping  multitude,  should  I  not  scorn? 
"  Free  thought — free  will — the  birth-right  true  of  all — 
"  Manhood,  the  universal  heritage — 
"  For  them,  nor  for  a  million  times  their  worth, 
*'  I  would  not  barter!" 

King.  *'  Must  thou  scorn  for  this," 

The  rank  and  name  which  proud  posterity 
Might  carve  upon  some  lofty  monument? 

Arm.  I  ask  no  monument,  save  that  which  lives 
Within  the  bosoms  of  my  fellow  men  ! 
No  epitaph,  save  that  which  love  inscribes 
Upon  their  memories;   no  chronicle, 
Save  that  the  annals  of  my  country  show; 
Which,  if  I  serve  it,  will  enroll  my  name 
Upon  the  page  of  honored  history,  where, 
Alone,  I  could  be  proud  to  see  it  blazoned ! 

King.  Well,  be  it  so;  and  yet  one  wish  I  have 
Thou  need'st  must  grant,  De  Rohan's  daughter  loves  thee; 
She's  fair  and  rich,  and  virtuous.     Seek  her  hand. 
Nor  be  a  courtier  since  thou  likest  it  not, 
Yet  hold  an  honored  station  in  our  court. 

Arm.  My  liege,  I  cannot  wed — once  hath  my  heart 
In  all  the  glow  of  its  first  warmth  been  given  ! 
Years  have  rolled  by  since  Blanche  hath  pass'd  away — 
In  life's  arena  I  have  stood  alone — 
And  wrestled  on — and  welcomed  each  new  day 
That  led  me  closer  to  the  grave — that  porch 
Which  opens  on  the  palace  of  my  joy! 

King.  Beware!   our  patience  is  not  made  of  stulEf 
Too  lasting — try  it  not  beyond  its  strength — 
Marry  De  Rohan's  daughter!     'Tis  thy  King 
Commands! 

Aj^m.       My  gracious  liege,  no  King  can  tear 
The  land-marks  from  the  honest  path  of  Truth. 
Marry!  call'st  thou  that  marriage  which  but  joins 


48  armand;    or,  [Act  IV. 


Two  hands  with  iron  honds?  that  yokes,  but  not 
Unites,  two  hearts  whose  pulses  never  beat 
In  unison?     The  legal  crime  that  mocks 
The  very  name  of  marriage — that  invades — 
Profanes — destroys  its  inner  holiness? 
No!   'tis  the  spirit  that  alone  can  wed, 
When  with  spontaneous  joy  it  seeks  and  finds, 
And  with  its  kindred  spirit  blends  itself! 
My  liege,  there  is  no  other  marriage  tie! 

[Enter  Victor  with  Blanche  veiled, 
and  jAQ,vi:i.iyi E/ollowin</,   l.  u.  E. 
King.  This  daring  is  beyond  endurance — nay, 
Beyond  belief.     Since  you  reject  our  grace 
Beware  our  wrath !  retire. 

[Armand  exits  l.  1  e. 
This  stubborn  boy  no  more  shall  thwart  our  wishes! 

[Victor  advances  with  Blanche,   r.  h. 

Vic.  Sire,  we  should  not — I  should  not  have  dared  thus 

to  intrude  upon  your  privacy,  but  for  the  fair  excuse  I 

bring.     Your  Majesty  has  but  to  behold  it,  and  ive  are — 

that  is,  I  am  secure  of  pardon. 

King.  Excuse,  that  takes  so  soft  a  shape  brings  with  it 
The  pardon  that  it  asks.     Leave  us. 

[Victor  pompously  pj'esents  his  arm  to 
Jaqueline,  exeunt  l.  2.  e. 
Now  lady, 
"We  pray  thee  speak — what  wouldst  thou  have  of  Louis  ? 

Blan.  Perchance  too  much,  my  liege,  for  you  to  grant. 
Too  little,  it  may  be,  for  my  great  wants! 

King.  Speak  freely  then — what  wouldst  thou  ask? 
Blan.  Protection ! 

Protection  against  one  of  rank  so  high 
No  hand  but  thine  could  reach  him — could  save  me ! 
King.  His  name? 

Blan.  Richelieu,  thy  favorite,  and  my  father ! 

King.  Thy  father  !  can  it  be  !  has  Richelieu  then 
A  child !      I  pray  thee,  let  ray  hand  remove 
'1  he  jealous  veil  that  clouds  thy  brow. 

{Blanche  raises  her  veil. 
Great  heaven ! 
"What  sorcery  is  this?     I  know  that  face. 
Or  it  hath  visited  my  dreams, — or  else 


Scene  II.]         the    peer    AND    THE    PEASANT.  49 

It  is — must  be — how  like,  how  changed! — and  yet 
How  like  !      What  spell  hath  conjured  up  the  dead  ? 

Blan.  Chance  words,  that  strangely  suit  this  stranger 
chance ! 
For  she  who  with  these  warm  and  living  lips 
Pleads  to  thee  here,  is  dead  to  all  who  loved 
Her  best.     Within  a  village  churchyard  lies 
An  humble  stone  that  bears  her  name — and  yet 
She  stands  before  you  ! 

King.  And  that  name  was — 

Blan.  Blanche. 

King.  Oh  !  cheat  me  not  enraptured  eyes !  deceive 
Me  not  too  happy  ears!   'tis  Blanche  herself! 
Blanche  whom  I  saw — Blanche  whom  I  mourned  as  dead  ! 
Ah  !    Richelieu  hath  wrought  this,  and  bitterly 
Shall  Richelieu  rue  it !      Blanche  is  mine,  and  mine 
In  spite  of  fate  !    (aside.)     Lady,  this  is  no  time. 
No  place  to  hear  or  to  redress  thy  wrongs. 
The  Duke  de  Rohan's  chateau  yonder  stands, 
There  will  I  place  thee  underneath  the  care 
Of  his  most  gentle  duchess — let  us  haste. 

\_As  the  King  advances  impetuously  to  seize 
the  hand  of  Blanche,  she  draws  back. 

Blan.  My  liege,  I  follow  thee. 

[King  recovers  himself,  crosses  and  bows. 
Exeunt  r.  1.  e. 
Enter  Jaqueline,  Babette,  Richelieu,  «?«c?  Armand 
hastily,  l.  u.  e. 

Rich.  Where  is  she? 

Jaq.  This  is  the  very  place,  but  I  don't  see  her  at  all! 

Arm.  She  lives  !  she  lives  !  she  walks  the  earth!   I  may 
Behold  her — once  more  clasp  her  to  my  heart ! 
Alive  !      Oh  !   let  me  not  grow  mad  with  joy  !       [crosses  r. 

Rich.  Thy  frenzy  may  have  bitterer  cause  ere  long ! 
Where  is  she  ?     Woman,  speak.     Where  is  my  child? 

Bab.  Oh,  your  eminence!  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  It 
was  all  Jaqueline. 

Arm.  Jaqueline,  good  girl,   speak  thou — where  is  my 
Blanche  ? 

Jaq.  Oh!  I'll  speak.  Monsieur  Armand  ;  I'll  tell  you 
everything,  for  Blanche  never  loved  any  body  as  she  loves 
you,  and  so  I  love  you  too.    A  beautiful  little  page  brought 


50  ARMAND;    or,  [Act.  IV. 

her  here,  and  she  made  me  come  with  her ;  then  she  was 
talking  witli  a  spendidly- dressed  cavaher,  and  the  page 
said,  it  was  the  King  ! 

Rich.  The  King  !     Ah  then  indeed,  alFs  lost ! 

Arm.  All's  gained ! 

She  lives  !  and  let  Fate  hide  her  where  it  will, 
The  ample  earth  is  all  too  small  to  part  us ! 

[Ci'osses  R.  and  up  c. 

Bab.  Ah!   my  lord  Duke,  it's  all  right,  his  Majesty — 

Rich.  Woman,  away. 

Bab.  Oh,  my  poor  neck  ! 

[Exit  hastily  with  Jaqueline,  r.  2  f. 

Rich,   (after  pausing  and  looking  at  Arm  and,) 
Armand,  I  hated  thee — had  planned  thy  ruin — • 
But  yet  I  loved  my  child,  and  would  have  sold 
Myself  to  slavery  to  have  shielded  her 
From  Louis.     Now,  all  feelings  merge  in  one. 
That  one  the  last !     She  hves — may  live  for  thee. 
Find  her,  and  she  is  thine !   or  if,  when  found. 
Thou  canst  not  from  the  royal  libertine 
Defend  her,  save  her  as  a  Roman  would. 

Arm.  Fear  not — the  King  is  but  a  man  !     A  man 
With  no  more  rights  than  I,  when  on  my  rights 
He  dares  to  trench !     And  by  that  righteous  heaven. 
Which  frowns  upon  this  deed  of  infamy, 
I  swear  to  snatch  her  taintless  from  his  arms ! 

Rich.  Find  her,  she's  thine. 

Arm.  I  will,  or  lose  myself! 

\Exeunt  hastily,  Richelieu  l.,  Armand  r. 


END    OF    ACT    IV. 


Scene  I.]        the  peep,  and  the  peasant.  51 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

An  antechamher  in  the  Palace  of  the  TuiUeries. 
Enter  Richelieu  and  Le  Sage,   r.  h. 

Rich.  How  learnt  you  this?  the  truth — the  truth — • 
concealment  now  were  vain — I  overheard  thee  talking  with 
the  page — you  spoke  of  Blanche,  last  night,  again  to-day, 
the  King  refused  me  audience — tell  me,  is  Blanche  then  in 
his  power? 

Le  Sage.  Assuredly! 

Rich.  The  Duke  d'Antin — did  I  not  hear  you  say,  his 
hand  had  dealt  this  blow  ? 

Le  Sage.  Unfortunately! 

Rich.  Where?  "Where  is  Blanche?  Answer!  dost 
thou  not  see  my  agony  ? 

Le  Sage.  Perceptibly! 

Rich.  Dotard!  I  would  not  do  thee  violence!  ha!  the 
Duke  himself  approaches — begone! 

Le  Sage.  Voluntarily!   {bowsj  and  speedily!  (aside.) 

[Exit  R.  H. 

Enter  Duke  d'Antin,  l.  h. 

Rich.  I  would  have  sought  thee,  Duke — pardon  this  haste, 
A  father  injured  cannot  wait  on  form. 
Where  is  my  Blanche? 

D'Ant.  What  should  I  know  of  Blanche  ? 

Rich.  Answer,  old  man,  I  charge  thee!  Where's  my  child? 

D'Ant.  Oh  !  rather,  Duke  de  Richelieu,  answer  thou ! 
Where  is  my  Child  ? 

Rich.  Speak  not  of  her — 'tis  more 

Than  twenty  years,  since  thou  hast  called  her  daughter ! 

B'Ant.  And  if  it  be,  think'st  thou  that  twenty  years 
Are  lethe  for  a  father's  memory  ? 
Be  witness  these  white  locks,  whose  every  hair 
Have  been  the  record  of  a  separate  woe  ! 
Thou  thought' st  my  child's  destroyer  was  unknown, 
I  knew  the  subtle  Richelieu's  arts  too  well 


52  ar.mand;    or,  [ActV. 

To  doubt  what  name  the  heartless  villain  bore. 

I  did  not  brand  thee  as  a  libertine, 

The  Court,  uho  knew  thee,  had  but  smiled. — Redress 

I  sought  not — to  proclaim  thy  treachery 

Had  only  been  to  publish  D'Antin's  shame! 

But  on  my  knees,  I  swore  to  dedicate, 

AH  that  remained  of  life  to  my  revenge. 

I  swore  that  thou  shouldst  taste  the  self-same  cup 

AVhich  thou  hadst  poisoned  for  my  lip. — Richelieu, 

It  is  fulfilled — my  hour  of  triumph's  come! 

Rich.  Oh  !  wretched  man,   hadst  thou  but  known — 

D\lni.  I  knew 

Enough  !  as  thou  shalt  learn  too  late  !  the  ruin 
That  waits  thij  child  is  sure  as  that  of  niine — 
I  watched  her  from  her  earliest  hour — through  7ne 
The  King  beheld  her  first — her  seeming  death 
I  never  credited — I  tracked  thy  steps. 
And  through  a  venal  priest,  I  set  her  free  ! 
I  brought  her  to  the  King,  and  wove  the  snare 
That  makes  her  his  1 — Now  writhe  as  I  have  writhed! 
Now  tear  thine  hair  as  I  tore  mine! — Now  cast 
Thyself  in  maniac  fury  on  the  earth — 
Feel  all  a  father's  agony!   and  pray 
As  I  have  prayed,  the  living  earth  might  yawn 
To  yield  a  grave  for  a  dishonored  child! 

Rich.  i\Iadman!   what  hast  thou  done  ?  thy  Adelaide 
Ne'er  knew  the  blush  of  shame  !     Iler  weal  and  mine 
Forbade  the  court  should  know  Richelieu  had  wed; 
And  yet  she  was  my  wife! — Blanche  ivas  her  child  ! 

D'Ant.   (much  moved)  llev  chiliXl   the  child  of  Adelaide? 
Just  Heaven! 
I  snatched  the  vengeance  which  is  thine  alone, 
Its  gathered  fury  bursts  upon  my  head! 

Rich.  Lose  not  the  moments  thus  in  bootless  anguish, 
Where  is  she  now  ? 

lyjnt.  Alas,  I  know  not ! 

Rich.  Haste  and  learn,  thy  spies, 

For  spies  thou  must  have  used,  can  surely  tell! 

D\4nt.  Oh!   Adelaide!  my  Adelaide!  is  Blanche 
Indeed  thy  child  ? 

Rich.  No  more, — thou  wilt  have  time 

Enough  for  tears  when  there  is  none  for  action. 


SCKNE  II.]         THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  53 

(crosses  R.J  Let  us  but  find  her!   should  we  then  have  cause 
To  weep — be  each  fierce  tear  of  blood  alone  ! 

[Exeunt  r.  h.  1  e. 

SCENE  II. 

A  sumptuous  apartment  in  theChateau  oftheDuke  de Rohan. 

Enter  Blanche,  splendidly  attired,   through  centre  doors, 
followed  by  Jaqueline. 

Jaq.  Dear  Mam'selle  Blanche,  to  think  that  I  should 
have  found  you  at  last!  and  through  that  beautiful  little 
page! 

Blan.  But,  Armand!   Oh!  my  best  Jaqueline,  my  friend, 
Thou  hast  seen  Armand — and  he  knows  I  live — 
He  spoke  of  me  as  in  our  early  days — 

Jaq.  Ay,  that  he  did,  Mam'selle,  and  I  am  sure  he 
loves  you  as  much  as  ever. 

Blan.  Bless  thee,  Jaqueline  !  (embracing  her  fervently) 
Oh!   how  one  hour  of  joy 
Can  brighten  a  whole  age  of  agony  ! 
The  weary  years  that  sundered  us  so  long 
Have  vanished — every  pang  that  wrung  my  soul 
Is  blotted  out  from  memory! — The  past. 
Is  one  of  sunbeam  only — and  the  future 
Seems  something  brighter  still — I  am  too  blest ! 

Jaq.  So  will  Monsieur  Armand  be — but  you  will  scarcely 
know  him,  he  looks  so  altered,  for  he  is  a  great  soldier 
now — and  I  think  he  will  hardly  know  you  in  this  grand 
dress. 

Blan.  They  said  the  king^ would  visit  me  to-day. 
And  to  receive  him  decked  me  in  these  robes. 

Jaq.  Would  you  not  like  me  to  seek  Monsieur  Armand, 
Mam'selle  Blanche? 

Blan.  Do  !  if  thou  cans' t,  my  kind  Jaqueline. 

Jaq.  Oh  !  I'll  find  him  if  he's  within  the  walls  of  Paris, 
be  sure  of  that !     I  do  so  like  to  bring  lovers  together. 

[Exit  R.  1  E. 

Blan  What  thronging  thoughts  in  quick  succession  chase 
Each  other  through  my  brain  !     I  pace  these  halls 
As  one  who  walks  them  in  a  dream — and  Fear 
By  turns,  convulses  every  trembling  limb, 
By  turns,  thine  azure  eyes,  immortal  Hope ! 


54  ARM  and;  or,  [Act  V. 

In  visioned  beauty  smile  upon  my  doubts! 
^Yhile  in  thy  cheating  glass,  whose  magic  brings 
The  wished  for  object  near,  my  spell-bound  sight 
Sees  Armand  only! — Thus — 

Enter  Victor,  c.  d. 

Vic.  His  Majesty! 

Enter  King,  c.  d. 

[Exit  Victor,  c.  d. 

King.  My  Blanche!    (pauses  and  looks  at  her.) 

^\'hy,  this  is  well — this  rich  attire 
Befits  thy  beauty  royally — the  emblem 
Of  greater  change  that  waits  thee  I 

Blan.  'Twas  the  Duchess 

That  willed  it,  and  not  I,  my  liege. — 

King.  Thy  tone, 

Fair  Blanche,  is  grave,  yet  should  no  sadness  mar 
Its  music!      Now  thy  life  shall  be  one  pageant 
Of  long  delight!     Thine  every  hour  a  joy 
Newer  and  gladder,  and  thine  every  wish 
Fulfilment. 

Blan.     Sire,  I  have  but  one — restore 
Me  to  my  childhood's  home,  to  him,  without 
Whose  presence  even  that  home  were  joyless! 

King.  A  fate  more  bright  awaits  thee;  hast  thou  not 
Divined  it?     Knowest  thou  not  thou  art  beloved? 

Blan.  I  do,  my  liege. 

King.  And  by  thy  King  ! 

Blan.  Oh,  heaven! 

King.  Fair  Blanche,  look  not  so  like  the  startled  fawn 
By  friendly  echoes  frighted^   Listen,  love, 
A  splendid  fate  its  golden  page  unrols 
Before  thee.     In  our  court  the  proudest  place 
Is  thine.     The  queen  shall  yield  thee  her  protection — 
All  men  shall  bow  to  her  whom  Louis  loves. 

Blan.  Just  heaven!   can  such  things  be  !  or  doth  some 
demon 
Whisper  these  horrors  in  my  dreaming  ear ! 

King.  Sweet  Blanche,  the  splendors  that  I  proffer — 

Blan.  Peace ! 

Thou  King — by  passions  vile  unkinged!      Thy  words 
Have  scorched  my  brain,  and  siiould  have  seared  tliy  lij/s 
In  passing  them.     jM}^  liege,  my  liege,  was  it 


Scene  II.]  THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  55 

A  kingly  deed  to  snare  a  being  helpless — 
And  friendless — young  as  I — thus  to  profane 
Her  ears,  and  seek  by  virtue  of  thy  crown 
To  rob  her  of  the  brightest  diadem 
That  can  encircle  woman's  brow! 

King.  Nay,  Blanche, 

Mar  not  thy  beauty  with  this  frigid  bearing. 
Frowns  do  not  suit  those  gentle  eyes,  nor  fierceness 
Thy  timid  nature — weak  thou  art — 

Blan.  Not  weak, 

Islj  liege,  when  roused  by  insult  and  by  wrong! 
I  tell  thee,  haughty  king — presumptuous  man  ! 
That  like  the  unshorn  locks  the  Nazarene 
Vowed  to  his  God — the  purity  of  woman 
Becomes  at  once  her  glory  and  her  might ! 

King.  Ah,  Blanche!   and  is  there  no  excuse  for  love? 

Blan.  Thy  love  is  but  self-love!  that  first  and  worst 
Of  passions — poisoned  spring  of  every  crime — 
Which  hath  no  attribute  of  perfect  love! 


King.  This  to  thy  Kin 


Blan.  Art  kingly  in  thy  deeds? 

The  star  that  shines  so  brightly  on  thy  breast 
Is  worthless  if  it  shed  no  light  within! 
The  throne  that  lifts  thee  o'er  thy  fellow  men 
Should  teach  the  virtues  which  alone  can  raise 
Thee  'hove  them! 

King.  At  thy  feet  let  me  implore — 

Blan.  Stand  off !  approach  me  not ! 

King.  Thou  fearest  me  then? 

Blan.  Fear  thee?     Danger  should  be  v^'here  fear  is — I 
See  none! 

King.     Woman!   thou  shalt  not  brave  me  thus  ! 
(seizes  her)  No  human  power  can  save  thee — thou  art  mine! 
Vr'hat  are  thy  feeble  struggles  in  my  grasp  ? 

Blan.   (sinJcing  on  her  knees)   Spare  me,  my  liege,  spare 
me! 

King.  It  is  thy  turn 
To  sue,  and  all  in  vain !  thou  hast  forgot 
That  I  am  King,  and  thou  hast  no  protector  ! 

Blan.   (starting  up)  I  have!   I  have!      One  who  for- 
sakes me  not ! 
One  whom  thou  darest  not  brave!   unloose  thv  hold 


56  armand;   or,  [Act  V. 

Or  dread  his  fury !     Heaven  protects  me  still ! 

[2'Ae  King  releases  her,  awed  by  her  manner 
Thou  art  my  sovereign — I  a  friendless  subject — 
I  woman,  and  thou  man! — my  helplessness 
Was  of  itself  a  claim  to  thy  protection — 
A  claim  thou  hast  rejected!     Answer,  King! 
Hast  thou  done  right?     Man,  was  it  well  to  use 
Thy  strength  against  my  weakness?     Thou  art  dumb! 
Thou  canst  not  answer  !     King  of  France,  I  scorn  thee  I 

[Exit  R.  1  L. 

King.  Why  should  I  shrink  from  one  so  powerless? 
And  can  it  be  that  Virtue's  presence  awes 
Me  thus?     That  Virtue  which  no  weapon  needs 
Except  its  own  resistless  dignity ! 

She  speaks,  I'm  hushed — she  spurns  me,  and  I  cower — 
She  leaves  me,  and  I  dare  not  follow  her! 

Enter  Armand  hastily,  r.  1  e. 
You  here? 

Arm.  My  lips,  my  liege,  might  echo  back 
The  question  ! 

King.       Sir,  it  is  thy  monarch's  right 
To  tarry  where  he  will. 

Arm.  It  is  my  right 

To  seek  what  I  am  robbed  of  where  I  may ! 

King.  Barest  thou? 

Arm.  Hadst  thou  not  dared  to  wrong  me — I 

Had  never  dared  to  stand  before  thee  thus. 

King.     "  A  monarch's   state   may  sometimes  sanction 
what — 

Arm.  '*  A  monarch's  state  that  sanctions  what  would 
shame 
'*  A  subject,  doubly  shames  itself!   when  Wrong 
*'  And  Crime  usurp  the  garments  of  that  state, 
**  They  grow  more  hideous  in  those  glittering  robes 
'*  Than  when  they  wear  the  branded  felon's  garb." 

King.  Armand !  I  thought  thee  loyal — 

Artn.  So  I  was, 

When  loyalty  was  virtue — Oh !  my  liege, 
Because  my  heart  'neath  ruder  vesture  once 
Hath  beat,  than  e'er  thine  own  hath  throbbed  against, 
Think'st  thou  its  feehng  is  less  keen?     Its  sense 
Of  injury  less  delicate?  thinkest  thou 


Scene  II.]       the   peer  and  the   peasant.  57 

It  will  not  leap  as  readily  to  kindness? 
Will  not  revolt  as  quickly  at  oppression  ? 
How  then  shall  I  be  loyal,  when  my  King 
Would  do  me  the  worst  injury  that  man 
Can  do  to  man? 

King.         What  injury,  rash  youth? 

Arm.  Of  my  affianced  bride  would'st  thou  not  rob  me? 
Would'st  thou  not  rob  her  of — how  shall  I  keep 
My  senses  at  the  thought ! — Is  Blanche  not  here  ? 

King.  This  passes  bearing. 

Arm.  Hear  me,  my  gracious  liege,  I  am  too  bold. 
Wrong  has  rough  words,  and  anguish  maddened  me  ! 
Bethink  thee, — on  the  battle  field  I  saved 
Thy  life.     Remembering  that,  oh.  Sire !  forget 
Thy  passion  for  this  maid — my  promised  bride. 
Let  it  be  as  a  cloud  which  dimmed  the  sun 
But  for  a  moment,  that  its  after  light 
Might  show  more  glorious.     Do  a  royal  act. 
And  do  it  royally,  that  men  may  see 
Thy  soul  is  royal  too.     She  does  not  love 
Thee,  give  her  back  to  me ! 

King.  I'll  hear  no  more  ! 

Arm.   Ha! 

King.  Not  another  word  ! 

Arm.  Pause  yet  a  moment. 

King.  Enough ! 

Arm.         I  am  no  more  tlie  suppliant ! 
M}j  jwivate  injury  grows  jmblic  wrong. 
The  saviour  or  the  avenger  stands  before  thee. 
Choose  thou. 

King.  Is  this  the  faithful  soldier — 

Arm.  No, 

It  is  the  injured  lover  thou  hast  wronged. 
The  man  his  monarch's  crimes  exasperate. 
Restore  my  Blanche,  and  I  am  what  I  was  ! 
Withhold  her,  and  I  know  not  what  I  may  be! 
"  Each  sigh  of  hers  shall  to  a  whirlwind  swell, 
"  And,  in  its  fury,  dash  thee  on  the  rocks 
"  Of  Public  Hate. — Each  prayer  she  breathes  shall  turn 
**  To  thunderbolts  placed  in  thy  people's  hands! 
*'  Woe — woe  to  him  on  whom  a  nation's  rage 
**  With  Perseus-weapons,  such  as  these,  shall  burst!" 

E 


58  armand;    or,  [Act  V. 

King.  Within  there  !  ho!   my  guards  ! 

Enter  Guards  q.  from  r.  h.  icith  Pages. 

[Guards  advance  to  receive  the 
sword  of  Arm  AN  D. 

King.  Yield  up  your  sword. 

Arm.  Pardon,  my  liege,  but  never  shall  its  edge 
Flash  upon  battle  field  again.     You  gave  it, 
Take  back  the  gift  unstained,  but  worthless. 

[Breaks  the  sword,  retires  c. 

Enter  Richelieu  and  d'Antin  hastily,   r.  1  e. 

King.  Sirs, 

Your  ceremonial  is  but  scanty  with  us 
That  ye  intrude  upon  our  presence  thus, 
Unushered  and  mibidden. 

Rich.  Pardon,  Sire, 

The  courtier  was  forgotten  in  the  father. 
I  seek  my  child. 

King.  Hast  thou  some  new  deceit 

To  hide  her  from  the  world  ?     Another  stone 
To  lay  upon  an  empty  grave  1 

Rich.  ]\Iy  Liege, 

A  father's  fears — a  father's  fondness  urged  me  ! 
Be  these  my  plea. 

jy Ant.   (crossing  c.)  Grant  me  a  word,  my  king. 
This  head  has  whitened,  and  this  frame  grown  old 
In  serving  France  and  thee.     Blanche  is  my  child 
No  less  than  his — the  child  of  Adelaide, 
Sole  daughter  of  my  house.     Deny  me  not         •• 
My  first  and  only  prayer.     Restore  her  to  us. 

King.  The  warring  elements  of  good  and  ill 
With  fearful  strife  are  battling  in  my  soul  ; 
But  Policy  with  Virtue  sides,  and  makes 
The  victory  hers. — Richelieu,  a  word  with  thee. 
Blanche  is  beneath  this  roof.     Go,  bring  her  hither. 

Rich.  More  gladly  have  I  never  flown  to  do 
My  sovereign's  will.  [Exit  l.  h. 

King.  Armand,  d'Antin,  draw  near. 

Harsh  thoughts  are  written  on  the  brow  of  each. 
And  yet,  I  think  ye  true,  I  know  ye  brave, 
And  would  believe  ye  loyal, — nay,  will  make 
Some  effort  so  to  hold  ye. 


Scene  II.]         THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  59 

Arm.  Oh,  my  King! 

Hast  thou,  indeed,  relented? 

King.  See  who  comes. 

Enter  Richelieu,  l.  1  e.,  leading  Blanche,  her  eyes 
are  bent  upon  the  ground,  she  does  not  perceive  Armand. 

Arm.  Blanche  1 

Blan.  Armand,  is  it  thou?  \with  an  ex- 

clamation of  joy  she  rushes  into  his  arms. 

Arm.  My  own,  my  Blanche ! 

Is  it  no  phantom  dupes  as  it  hath  duped 
So  oft  my  willing  sense?     Is  it  thyself? 
If  joy  could  kill,  this  hour  so  richly  blest 
That  ecstacy  seems  pain,  would  be  our  last. 

Blan.  Ah  !  if  it  were  we  would  not  murmur.     Life 
Hath  not  another  moment  such  as  this. 

Rich.  My  child  !  remember  thou  art  not  thine  own 
To  give. 

Blan.  My  dearest  father, — 

Rich.  Nay,  I  know 

AVhat  thou  wouldst  say.     First  bow  thy  knee  to  one 
AVho  claims  thy  reverence  and  love.     Behold 
Thy  mother's  sire.  [Blanche  kneels  to  d'Antin, 

he  raises  and  embraces  her. 

B'Ant.  My  child  !  [Blanche  returns  to  c. 

King.         Blanche,  (crossing  to  her)  shrink  no  more. 
I  was  thy  lover — I  am  now  thy  King  ! 
We  claim  the  right  to  wed  thee  as  we  will. 
Nay,  traitress — no  rebellion,  for  thy  sire 
Sanctions  our  choice.     Armand,  more  chary  hold 
Our  second  gift  than  thou  hast  done  the  first. 

[^points  to  the  sword. 
No  more  of  that. — We  pardon, — Blanche  is  thine. 

[^  joins  their  hands  and  crosses  /o  r.  h. 

Arm.    My  cup  is  brimming  over, — speak  thou  my 
Blanche, 
My  long  lost  bride, — tell  me  thy  happiness 
Hath  reached  the  blessed  zenith  of  mine  own  ? 

Blan.  My  happiness  ?  [to  the  audience. 

Its  bounds  are  fixed  by  these. 
Who've  made  so  light  our  earnest  task  to  please, 
By  lenient  eyes,  that  only  beauties  seek, 


CO  ARM  AND,    ETC.  [AcT  V. 

And  lenient  lips,  that  mildest  judgment  speak  ! 

Who,  if  some  passing  good  they  chance  to  find, 

Seem  to  all  else  so  kindly,  gently  blind  ! 

Our  faces  are  of  yours  the  mirrors  true. 

Cloud  'neath  your  frown — grow  bright  at  smiles  from  you. 

What  fiat  then  to-night  may  we  expect  ? 

Shall  we  your  censure,  or  your  smiles  reflect  ? 


Drsi'OSITION    OF    CHARACTERS    AT    THK    FALL    OF    CURTAIN. 

R.    King.     Armand.     Blanche.     Richelieu.     D'Antin.    l. 
Guards  arid  pages  in  the  back  ground. 


THE    END. 


OR,  I 

I 

STUDIES     OF     THE     TOWN.     | 

BY    AN    OPERA-GOER. 

WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS      BY      DARLET, 
Pfrat    Series    in    One    Volume^    Cloth,   price   $1   5*5. 

0°  This  is  a  work  for  the  express  entertainment  of  ah 
spinsters  who  wish  husbands  ;  all  belles  who  admire  their  own 
charms  ;  all  beaux  who  are  captivated  with  their  own  por- 
traits ;  all  old  ladies  who  wish  to  be  young ;  all  authors 
emulous  of  their  own  works  ;  all  fashionists  in  love  with  their 
own  position  ;  all  misses  eager  to  be  seen  ;  all  rich  men  who 
are  lovers  of  their  own  money  ;  all  bachelors  looking  for  a 
fortune  ;  all  poets  infatuated  with  their  powers ;  all  critics 
confident  of  their  taste  ;  and  all  sensible  men  who  are  content 
to  be  honest. 


©pinions   of  tf)c   ^ress. 

"  The  Lorgnette,"  by  an  Opera-Goer,  has  won  a  flattering  reputation 
for  its  quiet,  miscliievoiisi  humor,  its  lively  sketches  of  fashionable  follies, 
its  shrewd  delineiitions  of  character,  and  its  iii;istery  of  a  graceful,  trans-  j 
parent,  healthy  English  style.  It  speaks  well  ft)r  the  versatility  of  lite-  \ 
rary  talent  among  us,  that  nearly  a  score  of  liie  wits  of  Gothaui  have  i 
had  the  credit  of  its  paternity.  The  aiitlior  has  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  j 
of  his  production.  A  second  series  is  announced  by  Stringer  &.  Town-  I 
send,  of  which  we  have  received  the  first  number,  devoted  to  the  mj's 
teriesof  May  moving,  and  the  still  more  profound  mysteries  of  the  Polka 
and  the  Polkists.— JV.  Y.  Tribune. 

Anything  that  grows  in  value  with  progressing,  as  does  the  "LoRO- 
NETTK,"  is  note-worthy  in  these  tapering  times  ;  and  why  we  have  not 
spoken  of  the  numbers  as  they  have  appeared,  is  simply  because  we 
have  not  received  thoni ;  for  they  are  of  a  Salmagundi  spiciness,  that  it 
were  dull  knowingly  to  overlook.  The  sketches  of  a  "  Bostonian,"  a 
"Philadeiphian,"  and  other  "Strangers  in  Town,"  as  estimated  in  New- 
York,  are  truly  capital,— Z/^orne  Journal. 

The  fact  that  the  "  Lorgnette  "  has  thorough  experience — that  he 
has  been  "in,"  "of,"  and  "through,"  as  well  as  recently  so  far  "above," 
the  follies  which  he  treats  of  so  feelingly — of  course  gives  weight  and 
efficHcy  to  his  opinions.  But  we  confess  to  have  been  str mgely  aflected 
by  these  writings,  previously  to  any  knowledge  of  their  source.  There 
seems  to  be  a  subtle  intrinsic  power  in  their  half-e.-irnesi  expressions, 
independent  ot',  and  far  superior  to  any  extraneous  authority. 

Tiieir  unusual  combination  of  strength,  delicacy,  and  refinement,  is 
quite  consoling;  and  we  rejoice  that  one  writer  of  these  d:iys  can  be  se- 
vere, without  foriietting  the  gentleman,  and  can  demonstrate  that  wit  is 
most  keen  and  sparkling,  when  set  in  English,  "  pure  and  undefiled.'  — 
Litem  ^v  fVurld.  i 


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